Keeper of Mine
by Sochineya
Summary: For a sin'dorei noble's free-spirited and mischievous son, being confined to the family estate and saddled with a nanny in the form of a troll warrior recently returned from Northrend is irking enough; a number of disappearances, strange occurrences, and a spate of violent deaths only exacerbate the situation. m/m
1. Chapter 1

**One of the few weird little OC stories I actually think about enough to write- set in and around Silvermoon during Wrath. Sort of a filler for anytime I need a break from slowly working on Worn Leather and Dulled Steel. Hopefully it isn't too bad. :)**

* * *

Strell cocked his head to the side and peered just around the corner, covertly surveying the elves milling about the bank.

The steady heat of the mid-afternoon sun made his collar stick uncomfortably to his neck. He sighed and tugged at the fabric before straightening up and smoothing back his long, dark locks. Appearances meant everything, of course, and his outfit had been carefully chosen- it conveyed his status perfectly without being too flashy or memorable.

Still, that didn't make it _comfy_. He'd grown accustomed to worn leather- simple and form-fitting, practical and sleek. Completely unlike the layers upon layers of flouncy crimson and black fabric he was now swamped in.

But, yes… _appearances_.

He rounded the corner with his head held high and his chest puffed out the slightest bit, quickly falling into step with a pack of mages-in-training following after their instructor. They passed vendors hawking their wares, beggars pleading for coppers, and a number of listless guards.

Strell clicked his tongue against his teeth and wished he was wearing his mask- it was hard work not to smile at how easy they were making this. Half the city guardians stared vacantly across the Royal Exchange, while the other half shifted sluggishly in place, rolling their shoulders and letting their massive shields rest on the ground.

It appeared the steady beating of the sun's rays was affecting even the upstanding guards.

As they neared the bank, Strell slipped away from the rest of the group and hugged the wall as he strode inside. The typically long lines had dwindled to just a few elves waiting on the bankers, the afternoon lull leaving the bank blissfully empty.

The two guardians posted by the entrance were busy conversing with a magister, and it looked that one might have been offering to assist the well-dressed mage in carrying the chest of scrolls he had taken from the vault out to his palanquin.

Oh, this was _good_. Strell casually took his place in line and waited impatiently.

It was seconds before he heard someone stop behind him. He turned slightly, smiling just the faintest bit at the young girl that was blushing and trying _very_ hard not to meet his eyes.

Larilla was petite and fair-skinned, her hair long and blonde and her cheeks dotted with just enough freckles to be adorable. She also had a twin, and her brother Mistren was more of the same, with short, fluffy locks that reminded Strell of a farstrider's feathers. The pair was simply too enticing to ignore, and apparently they both found something alluring in him as well, or else they wouldn't be so eager to take part in his schemes.

Mistren chose that moment to stumble into the bank, doing his best to appear lost and vulnerable- which probably wasn't hard, Strell mused. They were a naïve pair, and often so obtusely innocent that it made him groan, but both were keen to make themselves useful. He liked that.

The rogue had to bite back a soft smile as he saw the lone guard glance around nervously, looking torn between manning the post and helping the tousled young elf that was pleading with him.

"Next?"

Strell slid up to the counter and gave the banker a charming smile. Or, at least the hoped it was charming. It seemed to work most of the time.

But not this time.

"Yes?" she asked impatiently, _completely_ ignoring his smile as she tap-tap-tapped her long nails against the counter.

He recovered with a soft frown. "Yes, I need to withdraw a hundred and fifty gold from my vault. Jahrel Lightbreeze."

"Identification?"

He pulled a length of chain from within his robe and offered up the crest that dangled from it as proof. "And my papers as well," he added, pulling forth a slip of paper and unfolding it. "Bit worn out, though."

The banker sneered slightly at the faded identification papers, squinting to make out the smeared writing.

Strell knew it was a good forgery. He knew more about nobles' crests and identification papers than your average rogue did, having access to his own documents for examples.

The banker brusquely shoved his items back into his hands and then went to retrieve the gold from the back of the vault.

"Thank you, miss," he said with a quick wink, which earned him a huff and an eyeroll as she counted up the coins and bagged them for him.

As soon as he turned, he carefully slipped the hefty pouch to Larilla. Always better to be safe than sorry, after all, and the girl was about a thousand times less suspicious than he was.

It wasn't like he needed the gold anyway- it was better that it end up with Mistren and Larilla. Their little apartment was woefully underfurnished. After losing their parents to the Scourge, they'd had to quickly learn to provide for themselves; they did honest work, and got an honest but meager pay in return. A little supplement to their income would go a long way, both for their welfare and for his chance with them.

Strell jaunted out of the bank with an unabashed grin, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself.

They'd meet up later at a tavern- somewhere with some clean rooms available, hopefully- and have a few drinks before tumbling off somewhere. The rogue hummed thoughtfully, already thinking of what words to use on the twins. Having them both at the same time would require some artful manipulation on his part, but it would certainly be a worthwhile experience.

He had nearly made it back to Murder Row before a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

"And what do you think you're doing, Dayborne?" an authoritative voice bellowed from behind him.

He turned in place, straightening up smartly before the head of the guard. "Hello, Captain Niandra." He gave her a half-bow. "As… _pleasant_ as it is to-"

"You aren't going anywhere," she interrupted, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close. "You're one pathetic excuse for a rogue," she huffed as she tugged him along.

People were staring. Strell frowned apologetically as he caught Mistren and Larilla's faces in the crowd. At least _they_ seemed to be in the clear- it was why he'd chosen to involve them, after all. He might have too much of a reputation, but those two were wonderfully inconspicuous. No, they'd be fine, and a hundred-fifty gold richer besides.

Now, his own predicament was a bit more complicated.

_No threesome tonight_, he supposed, as another guardian came to seize his other arm and escort him away.

"Niandra," he tried pleadingly as they approached the guard's quarters. "Please, I'm not even sure what you're bringing me in for this time."

The elf snorted and tightened her grip on his arm, her gauntlets digging painfully into the flesh. "Oh, really? You have no idea what you might have done, Ser _Lightbreeze_?"

He winced slightly. "The banker-"

"Is my sister," the captain growled, "and has been entertained by dozens of my retellings of your laughable schemes. She knows you quite well, Dayborne. I do believe she had identified you the moment you gave her _that_ _smile_."

"What smile?" he asked with a flirtatious tone, that very smile creeping onto his lips.

"The same one that I fear too many of my guards are falling victim to," she hissed, jostling the rogue for good measure.

"It was only two of them, I thought. Unless I came across one off-duty and didn't realize it…" He thought back over the last few weeks' worth of conquests.

The captain's grumbling at least gave the rogue a certain satisfaction.

"Dayborne, I haven't the time nor the patience to ponder your reasons for committing such criminal acts," Guard Captain Niandra said with a long-suffering sigh. She led him by the arm through the halls of a justice building that he knew well by now. "I imagine your father is at quite a loss at accounting for your atrocious behavior as well."

"You needn't mention him," the young elf said with a sullen pout. He suddenly spied a familiar face and nodded in the direction of one of the city guardians, flashing the shield-baring blonde a quick smile as he passed. The guard coughed and ducked behind his massive shield, pointedly avoiding meeting the rogue's eyes.

"I do," she said sternly. "He has vouched for you up to this point, and paid your debts, and I have been unduly lax with you because of his reputation and kindness; however, I'm afraid I cannot continue to coddle you. Your youth will not protect you from the full force of the law for much longer, Dayborne," Niandra warned. "Get your act together now."

The elf pursed his lips and slouched in place.

The Guard Captain huffed. "Please take him to Ser Dayborne," she said to one of the guards posted outside the door. "I have quite enough trouble to deal with already," she said tiredly, laying her hand on a thick stack of papers and fanning them out across her desk.

"Well, thank you for this lovely visit," the rogue said pleasantly. He turned to leave.

"I mean it, Dayborne," she added sharply, putting a hand on his collar to stop him leaving just yet. "I will not tolerate your misdeeds in my city. Your family's protection and my generosity have expired, and I am plagued by greater concerns than your poor behavior."

The young elf's faint smile faded into a frown as he caught the guard captain's troubled look.

"Go on now," Niandra said stiffly, turning back to her desk.

One of the guards placed a hand on Strell's shoulder and led him out of her office and down another crimson-draped hall. They passed a dozen portraits of past captains of the guard, each gleaming in their golden plate and red finery, until they reached the public entrance at last- a room of moderate size with enough benches to host two dozen visitors.

And seated on one of them was a very familiar form.

Strell gave his father the most charming, innocent grin he could manage.

* * *

"- caught stealing _again_," his father said exasperatedly, one hand buried in his grey-streaked hair as he paced the room of the study. "And from Ser Lightbreeze of all people!"

Strell studied the floor carefully, his head bowed in a show of contriteness. The plush rug beneath his feet was a deep scarlet, its bold color occasionally punctuated by a swirling golden vine that wove its way around the carpeting.

"Light only knows why you do it," Lyrent Dayborne continued, shrugging hopelessly at his wayward son. "What do you need that we do not provide you with? What on Azeroth drives you to pilfer when we have enough gold to afford you every manner of necessity? And then there's your- your… _cavorting_ with the absolute worst sort of people," he sighed as he pinched the bridge of his narrow nose.

'_Cavorting' is a rather mild way of putting it_, Strell thought, scratching at his chin as he recalled the events that transpired during his most recent visit to one of the bloodthistle dens in Murder Row. He did feel more than a touch of remorse at his father's plight- no dignified family of Silvermoon would ever wish to be graced with a son like himself, and his father made an admirable attempt at setting him straight without being too overbearing about it.

"Really, Strell, I have gone to such great lengths to keep you in good company-"

"_Boring_ company," the young elf corrected, though he gave his father an apologetic look.

His father groaned and slumped into one of the plush armchairs in front of the fireplace. "I am truly sorry that your definition of 'exciting company' is strictly limited to addicts, whores, and drunken assassins," he said with a shake of his head. "Forgive me if I care enough for my youngest son that I do not happily deliver him to scoundrels that would just as soon rob him and slit his throat," Lyrent growled.

"I'm careful," Strell argued, pacing to his father's side and kneeling down to look up at him over the arm of the chair. "I'm always careful-"

"One cannot be 'careful' when they are inebriated, Strell," the older elf said in frustration. "And more often than not, you are found in such a state that you could not possibly protect yourself!"

"But I am careful of where I do that and whom I do it with," the young rogue said pleadingly. "And the tavern owners know I pay well. They look after me. I have not turned up dead yet, have I?"

"I will not continue to let your welfare rest on the appreciation of barkeeps and brothel owners, my son," he said with a heavy sigh. "Or on the willingness of the good captain to return you to us. She is quickly growing impatient, Strell, and your next misbehavior may end with you in a jail cell."

The rogue snorted softly.

"Which should concern you, if only because you would be forcibly deprived of your vices," Lyrent admonished. "I hear it's rather difficult to get bloodthistle while in the guardians' custody."

Strell frowned and fiddled with the tip of one of his long ears.

"In that vein, your mother… your mother _and I_ have decided that we simply cannot let you keep up this sort of lifestyle."

"You and mother? Or _just_ mother?" Strell asked in an irate hiss.

"Both of us," his father said with a stern edge to his voice. "We cannot convince the guards to overlook your indiscretions indefinitely, nor can we protect you whilst you skulk around with murderers and indulge in such… unsavory interests. And, of course, these things reflect poorly on the rest of us," he added with a gentle pat on the young elf's shoulder.

"Mother must be absolutely mortified," he said with a snort. "Can't have me making Torril look bad, can we?"

"It is as much for your wellbeing as it is for your brother's, and for us as a family," Lyrant said with a soft, slightly sad smile.

Strell grunted and crossed his arms. But he couldn't say that he was shocked. His family had tolerated his taste for adventure and debauchery and the low class lifestyle longer than he had imagined they would, and even now he could at least be certain that he would not meet an "accidental" death or find himself disowned and homeless as some other errant nobles might. His father would look out for him.

Strell fidgeted slightly, his expression changing to one of curiosity and concern. "And… and how will you and mother be doing this?" he asked warily. "Keeping me from trouble, that is."

Lyrant simply stood and strode across the room. He opened the door and gestured for Strell to go ahead.

"You're not shipping me off, are you?" he asked with a hint of desperation as he trailed his father down the circular staircase. He swore under his breath. "Father, please. I can't endure more than a week in the country, you know that."

No bloodthistle out there. No cheap booze. No people to pickpocket, no taverns to carouse, no strangers to flirt with, no trainers to learn from. Nothing but quiet, solitary life with the sheep and the big, empty house.

"No, your mo- we considered that," Lyrant said quickly, glancing back over his shoulder. "But... I would rather you learn self-control, Strell," he said softly. "Locking someone away from all temptation does not teach patience or self-denial."

"Ah," he groaned. "A teachable moment."

"Correct," his father said with a slow chuckle. "I… I believe you can do better than this, Strell." His expression was serious and concerned, and his gaze lingered on the young elf before he continued down the last few steps.

The rogue frowned and for a moment, he really did pity his father for winding up with spawn like himself. "So I'll be staying here… does that mean you will be tethering me to a rock somewhere?" he inquired.

Lyrant ignored his question, instead catching a servant's eye and nodding to her. "Niela, please bring him in."

The servant bowed and slid to the side to allow their guest entrance.

The tall, lanky form had to stoop to fit through the door, and it was only thanks to their estate's impressively high ceilings that he could fully straighten up without his mohawk- a shock of red-orange hair that was peppered by streaks of white- knocking into the chandelier.

The troll was armored to the teeth, complete with two massive broadswords strapped to his back. It took Strell a moment to distinguish the troll's tusks from the rest of the spikes jutting out from his body.

He exhaled sharply, wondering what had possessed his father to go along with this madness. The troll was clad in ridiculously heavy looking plate with spikes and ridges in every direction and long, well-muscled limbs were paired with odd three-fingered hands that appeared more suited to crushing necks and curling into substantial fists rather than to tending to a noble's errant son.

"Strell, this is your new keeper," Lyrant explained, gesturing to the massive troll darkening their entry hall. "I believe his name is…" He glanced to the troll quizzically, apparently having trouble recalling the blade-for-hire's name.

_Promising_, Stell groaned internally.

"Kinzal," the warrior supplied, his voice low and gravelly. He raised his hand into a fist and drew it across his chest, and Strell took it to be the manner in which trolls saluted.

"Yes, yes," his father said with a nod. "We've hired Kinzal to serve as a sort of… protector for you, Strell."

"Protector?" Strell had to bite his tongue. The troll looked more likely to break him in half than to protect him, not that he _needed_ any protecting to begin with.

"Yes, to keep you from physical harm as well as your more insalubrious indulgences." At Strell's audible swallow, he added, "He is not to harm you, I've made that clear. Of course… he is permitted to use more, hm… strenuous methods of restraining you, should the need arise."

Kinzal nodded and rolled his shoulders, the armor groaning and clinking at the movement.

"My apologies," Lyrant said at once. "You must be terribly uncomfortable in all of that plate. Let Niela show you to your room while I finish here with Strell."

"Ain't nuttin'," the troll said with a wave of his hand, but he lumbered after the small elf anyway.

Lyrant frowned at the two-toed footprints left behind on the white marble of the floor, but otherwise seemed fairly pleased and unconcerned with their blue-skinned guest.

"Is mother aware that my keeper is a troll?" Strell asked as soon as the two were out of earshot. "An absolutely _massive_ troll?"

"Oh, no, I picked Kinzal myself," his father said with a nod. "The only parameter your mother laid down was that it could not be another sin'dorei," he added in a hushed whisper.

His tone was not condescending, not even disappointed, really, but Strell quailed nonetheless. No matter how old he got, it was always terribly embarrassing to be reminded that his father- his whole family, really- was quite privy to his affairs, romantic and otherwise. Perhaps he _would_ be better served by a little more discretion…

"Wouldn't do to have me falling into bed with the one supposed to be keeping me on the straight and narrow," he said with a grimace.

His father looked away, his discomfort clear. "No, rather… unhelpful, that. I daresay that will not be a worry with Kinzal," he added with a wry sort of smile.

Strell just moaned and sagged slightly, leaning against one of the ornately carved pillars in the antechamber for support. _No, it certainly will not be_, he wanted to say. _You've picked a fine time to chain me to a great cockblock of a troll, too._

Certainly, it seemed as though his pursuit of the twins was on hiatus. As was all other fun. Even if he _could_ convince the troll to let him visit his favorite joints, it would be social suicide to do so with such a creature in tow.

"And what am I to do with this keeper of mine? Charades?" he asked sardonically.

"That sounds like a rousing way to spend the evening," his father agreed, either oblivious to or intentionally ignorant of his sarcasm. "And there is a deck of cards in my desk in the library, or chess-"

"I highly doubt that big oaf knows how to play chess," the rogue said sullenly. It didn't matter- he hated chess anyway.

"Strell," Lyrant sighed. "Please, be kind." He looked tired as he said it.

"I will try," Strell relented, peeling himself off of the pillar and standing up straight. "I will make the best of this very unfortunate situation."

"A very valuable life skill, I assure you," his father said with a smile. He tucked a lock of dark hair- the same ebony shade that he had- behind Strell's ear. "I would not have agreed if I did not truly think you would benefit from this arrangement," he added in a whisper. "Please give it a chance."

The young elf nodded reluctantly. "I will."

"Good. Now why don't you make sure he is settled in?" his father said brightly. "Show him the rooms and the grounds. He must be famished- take him to the kitchen first."

While not exactly eager to begin this new chapter in his life- the one in which he was, again, a child so inept that he required a nanny to tend to him- he did find he was growing rather interested in his new 'companion'.

He strode through the entry hall and bounded up the grand staircase. At the end of another hall and up a winding staircase was the spare room left after he and his brother had outgrown their governess. The door was still shut.

He edged up the flight of stairs and knocked loudly. "When you are settled, I would take you to the kitchen and then show you the house and grounds."

There was a muffled acknowledgement from within, and with a sigh, the blood elf retreated back down the steps.

Strell clicked his teeth against his tongue and shifted impatiently, quickly growing tired of waiting for his bodyguard-nanny to come down and commence his indefinite sentence.

"Sorry bout da wait," the warrior said once he opened the door. Strell noted that he only wore chainmail and a few accents of plate. And rather than his two massive swords strapped to his back, he now carried two smaller weapons sheathed at his sides. "Name's Kinzal," he said with a half bow.

"Strell," the rogue said flatly. "Let's get to the kitchen then, shall we?" he said at once, turning his back on the troll.

* * *

They walked the grounds briskly, with Strell pointing out a handful of buildings and areas to the troll as he munched on a chunk of ham from last night's meal and a hard block of cheese.

"That is the servants' housing," he said, gesturing to a long, low building behind the main house. "And there is the laundry- if you need yours done, simply take it to them. There is a small stables-"

"Ya, I saw dat. My raptor will be safe dere, ya?"

"You've a raptor?" the elf said, stopping in his tracks. He turned, an eager grin already in place. "Can I see it?"

Kinzal shrugged and took another bite. "Sure, mon. He a raptor like any otha', though."

"I've never seen one up close," Strell explained, almost doubling his pace as they headed to the stables. "Hopefully it won't eat the hawkstriders," he said with a laugh.

The troll made a face. "Doubt it. Too scrawny fo' his tastes," he grinned, his lips curling around the thick tusks that jutted out from his jaw. "I will be needin' ta take him huntin'. Birdfeed ain' gonna keep him full."

The elf's eyes went wide at the thought. Hunting would be an excellent diversion, and a possible opportunity to test his combat training. Perhaps it wouldn't be quite so bad, being chained to this troll.

"Loktak," he called as they approached the stable. A sharp whistle cut the air, the two notes immediately startling the hawkstriders.

Amidst the flurry of flapping and squawking, there was an undulating screech. Strell shivered with excitement.

"Loktak," the troll greeted as a crimson raptor flecked with orange and striped with a smoky russet lumbered in from the paddock. The raptor opened its jaws wide and made the screech again. "Dis is Loktak," he told Strell.

As the elf came closer, Kinzal took hold of Loktak's bridle and led him up to the gate on the stall.

Strell swallowed down his fear at those large, serrated teeth and the keen intelligence in those eyes and boldly offered his hand for the raptor to sniff. Hot air misted his palm, and then yellow eyes turned expectantly on him.

"Go ahead," the troll said with a nod.

The rogue laid his hand on Loktak's nose, feeling the pebbly bumps of his scales. Then he slowly stroked higher, over ridges and the feathers that decorated his bridle and across the stubby spikes that lined the beast's neck.

Loktak made a soft clicking noise in the back of his throat and leaned into the touch.

"How gentle for such a frightening appearance," Strell commented, smiling gleefully as the creature shut its eyes when he scratched under its jaw.

"He a big baby underneath all dem teeth an' claws," Kinzal agreed, leaning against the gate. "An' he definitely likes it here…"

"So where did you find employ before this?" the elf asked as he trailed his fingers over the warm scales on the reptile's nose.

"Here n' dere. Whereva' da Scourge needed ta be fought. I liked workin' wit da Argen' Crusade mostly," he shrugged. "Good pay, good people."

"You went to Northrend?" the rogue asked, his face alight with interest. "What's it like? How long were you there? What's _happening_ up there? How much longer until Arthas is slain?"

"Cold, abou' six months, a whole lotta shit goin' down, an' I dunno," Kinzal said tonelessly.

The elf pursed his lips. He had been hoping for some excitement from the troll, but even with a wealth of experiences that would be sure to enthrall, it seemed he would need to have the details pried from him. _No matter_, the rogue decided. Teasing the secrets out of him would help pass the time in the coming days.

"Well," Strell said with a sigh. "Perhaps I could come with you when you hunt for Loktak? I am decent with a bow," he said quickly. "And I know-"

"Master Dayborne," a voice called then. One of the kitchen servants. "Oh, Master Dayborne!" she said in shock as she drew near. "Dinner is about to be served and here you are handling such a dreadful creature!" she cried, wiping her hands on her apron as if it had been her that had touched the raptor.

Kinzal's mouth settled into a subtle frown, and Strell noticed. "He is quite docile," he told her as he smoothed back the reptile's feathered armbands.

"Don't let your mother know of this, Master Dayborne," the older elf said sternly, her brow furrowed in consternation. "And for Light's sake, hurry and wash up before dinner, lest you catch something from one of them," she said, eyeing the troll warily before admonishing Strell one last time and scurrying back toward the kitchen.

The rogue turned and gave Kinzal an apologetic look. "She is older," he tried to explain. "The Amani- the forest trolls have caused much grief over the years, and some people make little distinction between the Darkspear and the rest-"

"S'all right," the troll said uncomfortably. He stepped closer to Loktak and patted the raptor's cheek. "Let's get ya back now. I'd hate ta see ya madda get mad."

In that, Strell enthusiastically agreed; they bade Loktak farewell and he led his keeper quickly back to the house.

* * *

Despite the promising nature of the evening prior, the first day in the troll's company was a terrible bore.

He simply trudged behind Strell wherever he went, silent and imposing and utterly dull. And Strell had behaved himself, whiling away the hours with reading and crafting and cleaning his room. Like a good son.

By the time they ate their dinner in silence- alone, as his parents and brother had a pressing social engagement to attend to- Strell had exhausted wholesome options of entertainment. He picked disinterestedly at the delicately braised poultry while the warrior enthusiastically cleaned his substantially larger plate. It looked to be one of the serving platters normally reserved for Pilgrim's Bounty.

Thankfully, Strell had several well-hidden stashes of bloodthistle and alcohol in his room, and once alone he would be able to indulge in them for a few hours before falling asleep. How he would manage to get through the next day, well… that was a battle for tomorrow.

"I'll be retiring for the night," he informed the troll as they stood on the stairs leading up to his room. "Um. Good night."

The warrior grunted and gave him a brief nod.

Strell shrugged and began climbing the stairs. The sound of heavy footfalls behind him gave him pause.

"You do have your own room, do you not?" the elf asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

"I'm ta lock ya in," the troll explained as he fished a chain necklace out of his shirt. A bronze key dangled from it.

"Oh." Strell's mouth tightened as he continued up the stairs. His mother's orders, no doubt- as if a rogue couldn't simply pick the lock or sneak out the window. Lock him in his room? The very lock he had practiced on for months? It was insulting.

It wasn't enough that he now had a troll nanny, or that he was being watched like a mouse would be by a hawk, or that he was being deprived of nearly every fun diversion imaginable. He was to be locked in like a common prisoner, as well.

He fumed as he slammed the door shut, his anger flaring as he heard the clicking of the key turning the mechanism.

"Well, that tears it," he grumbled to himself once he had heard the troll stomp away.

He was silent as he slipped into his leather breeches and vest, the dark material cool and soft against his skin. He selected a few daggers that could be easily hidden on his person and took a small pouch with enough gold to buy enough alcohol and company to entertain him until dawn.

Or perhaps he'd go find the twins first. He weighed his options as he slid the window open and carefully climbed down the wall, using window ledges and the occasional crack as footholds. It helped that his room was the farthest in the eastern wing, closest to the nearby forest, situated well away from any areas where servants would usually be up and about.

Yes, the twins. They _did_ owe him, after all, he could easily convince them to put him up in their apartment for a while. With a bit of wine, he could probably persuade them to let him share a bed with at least one of them, too.

Strell hummed appreciatively at that thought and the mental images that accompanied it. He darted up an abandoned building and leapt from one of the windows, rolling as he landed on a roof, his impact making little noise at all. It was ease itself to avoid the guardians by running across the rooftops of the city like this.

The lights and noise of the taverns bordering Murder Row were so comforting, so _homelike_. As soon as he shimmied down from the roof and landed on the dirty street, den owners and brothel mistresses were already calling to him and beckoning him closer. It was nice to feel wanted. Urchins, orphans and bastard children of the prostitutes alike darted around his feet and tugged at his clothing eagerly, offering to run his errands and clean his shoes and to sell him trinkets and steaming cups of bloodthistle spiked tea.

He pulled out a pouch stuffed full of silvers and let each take a turn reaching inside and withdrawing a handful of coins. He couldn't say that he really _liked_ children, but it was always nice to see their faces light up like this- and the little imps were far more likely to helpfully tip him off about any guards making their rounds if they knew a bit of silver was in it for them.

He shooed them off before they could start annoying him and then slinked up to one of his favorite taverns. He hovered at the door, feeling… something. He thought of his father and that put a damper on his spirits.

"Ah, there he is. One of my best customers, that one," a boisterous voice called. "What are you standing there for? Come in, come in! First drink is free, darling," the buxom barkeep said with a wink.

Strell sauntered in slowly. "Won't be here long, I'm afraid. I've got people to see after this," he said with a grin, his thoughts wandering away from the friendly redhead and back to Mistren and Larilla, or perhaps even one of his old lovers.

"The night's young, love. Plenty of time to enjoy yourself," she said, running her fingers down his arm as she pressed a large stein of ale into his hand.

His grin widened. Things were looking up.

* * *

Strell wasn't sure where he was. Only that the whole world was swaying, and it hurt, and he felt sick. Something was digging into his stomach painfully, and each jolt and lurch made him want to vomit.

"I'm not sure where I am," he admitted to the spinning world. His hair was _everywhere_. It was in his face. It got caught in his mouth when he spoke.

There was an audible snort from somewhere behind and above him. "Ya be on ya way home, troublemaker."

"Oh."

Silence for a few long minutes.

"How'd you fin' me?" He hiccupped and pressed a hand over his mouth.

"I be hearin' some whores talk bout a 'dashing rogue' dat was buyin' drinks for da whole bar," the troll explained. "It coulda only been _you_," he sighed.

"Dashing, hm?" Strell chuckled. "Are you carryin' me?"

"Ya, mon."

Strell realized that he was dangling over the troll's broad shoulder and that the area directly in front of his face was the warrior's lower back. His breath misted against the shiny plate.

"Your pauldronsh hurt."

"Consider dat ya punishment."

"Suppose that'sh fair," the rogue said with a yawn. "Mm, could probly walk now."

There were a few seconds of utter silence. "I don' trust ya, mon."

"W-what?" Strell asked through the haze.

"Ya ran," Kinzal said simply.

The elf snarled. "So… so what? You were watchin' me, weren' you?" He swore several times over in Thalassian. "Th' whole time, huh? Shpying on me for mother? Jusht waitin' for me to break one of _their_ rulesh."

"If I was, I'd only be doin' ma job," the troll said roughly. "But no, I wasn'. Ya fadda mentioned dat ya workin' at bein' a rogue. I could see ya crackin'. I be tinkin' of givin' ya some lockboxes I had ta keep ya busy. Brought dem up, an' you was gone."

Strell groaned inwardly. It was probably just the effects of the alcohol wearing off, but he felt bad. Just… in general. Certainly not for disappointing some practically-nameless blade-for-hire.

It made him uneasy. And he felt slightly sick. Well, a lot sick, now. "Gonna, ahh, gonna-"

Apparently his fumbling and flailing conveyed his body's intentions well enough, for he quickly found himself tossed onto the grass some feet away from the warrior.

He pulled himself up onto his knees and retched. And retched. His whole body shook and quivered, and by the time he was finished he felt utterly exhausted.

And he felt hands slowly loosening themselves from his hair, carefully letting the long strands fall back around his face.

Strell sat up on his knees awkwardly. It was embarrassing enough to be caught as he had been- yanked from some den while in a drunken, blissfully drugged out stupor- and then to have an audience as his stomach violently revolted like that, but to have some battle-scarred warrior hold back his hair as he vomited?

"I… thank you," he said quietly.

Kinzal only shrugged. "Let's go," he said impatiently, taking hold of the elf's arm and supporting him as he shambled along.

More than once Strell felt the troll jerk him forward and shove him ahead, but in his stupor he could not rouse any protest at such rough handling.

The dawn broke just as they reached the back patio, where Kinzal propped the drunken elf up against a wall while he unlocked the servants' entry. Strell let his eyes drift shut as he was more or less carried through the house to- he assumed- his room.

The last thing he registered before he slipped away into a sound sleep was a mess of brilliant vermillion hair that clashed terribly against cool blue skin.

He awoke at noon and rolled unceremoniously out of bed. He sat up on the floor, somehow knowing that things were… different.

Strell credited his sense of observation, which had been honed over the course of his training. He got to his feet, ignoring the dull ache in his temples as he examined the room.

There- the windows had been nailed shut. And dangling down outside them were dozens of threads laced with tiny bells.

Strell frowned, deeply unenthused by this modification to his room. He was even less pleased when he noticed his hiding places for rum and bloodthistle had all been cleared out.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as he went for the door. His brow furrowed when it wouldn't open.

"Still locked in," he muttered, snatching up his lockpicks and setting to work on the familiar lock. He jimmied it open in a matter of seconds, but when he tried to open the door again, it still wouldn't give.

He threw his bag of lockpicks across the room in agitation; for the next five minutes, he paced furiously, hot anger at his entire family- and his new guardian as well- coursing through him. He was a prisoner in his own home. What had been true in spirit was now true in fact, and with each second that he dwelled on it, it seemed the room grew smaller and hotter.

At last he gave in and began banging on the door, shouting at the top of his lungs for someone, _anyone_, to let him out. He knew he was being irrational, that his desperation was most unbecoming, but he could not shake the sensation that he was entombed like a trollish lord, sealed away with all the finery and trimmings of a lavish life but imprisoned nonetheless.

Suddenly the door gave way and Strell was startled as his fist met with flesh.

Kinzal blinked at him in surprise. "Good aftanoon, Ser Dayborne," he greeted, glancing down briefly at where the elf had hit against his chest.

And for a moment, Strell did not know whether to hug the troll or push him down the stairs.

He settled for slipping back into his sullen mask as he crossed his arms. "What do you think you're doing, locking me up like a common prisoner? Did you-" he peered at his door, "did you put a bolt and a padlock on the outside of my bedroom door?! Where in Light's name do you get off thinking you can-"

"Ya parents gave me da okay," the troll interrupted, exhaling tiredly. "Even suggested usin' two fo' insurance."

Strell quailed slightly. He leaned against the frame of the door dejectedly. "Of course they did. Did they also suggest nailing my windows shut?"

"Nah, dat was my idea. Ya fadda thought it be too much, but ya madda insisted," Kinzal explained, peering past the elf into the room. "And da bells. Dat was me."

"You really don't want me getting loose, do you?" the rogue scoffed.

"Dis is how I be makin' ma livelihood for now," the troll explained with a lazy shrug. "I gotta eat, and ya madda made it clear dat if I let ya get away again, I can kindly escort myself off da premises."

"Ah." Strell bit his lip and fidgeted guiltily. "She's quite the harpy. I apologize," he added after a second's hesitation. "For getting you into trouble."

Strell couldn't be entirely certain, but he thought the troll might have smiled around his tusks. "You a real handful. I kin see why dey hired me. But I… underestimated ya," he sighed. "It won' be happenin' again, though," he added more sternly.

"You have no idea how boring it is to be here," the elf complained, dragging himself after the troll as he turned to descend the stairs. There was no way he would return to that room any time soon. "I'll go mad."

"No ya won'," the troll said dismissively.

"I will!" Strell insisted. He smiled to himself as he thought of an angle. "Alright, if I can't go anywhere that's _actually_ fun, can I at least make the best of it here?" he asked brightly. "I'm sure Loktak is eager to be fed. Can we go hunting now?"

Kinzal turned and gave him a pained grimace. "I'm sorry, Ser Dayborne," he said reluctantly. "I mentioned it ta ya madda… an' she said 'no'. Unequivocally. So I took Loktak out while ya slept."

The troll sighed as he rolled his broad shoulders, looking genuinely regretful- not that that soothed the rogue's injured pride or diminished his disappointment and anger.

"Well… what _can_ we do?" he asked, again following at the troll's heel.

"We'll find sometin'. Don' ya have some books ta be studyin' anyway?" Kinzal muttered.

"They're all so dull," the elf sighed. "I know! You can tell me about Northrend," he said breathlessly, a hopeful smile blossoming.

The warrior stopped abruptly. "Nah… I tink ya need ta get on ya studies. Do well enough an' maybe ya parents'll send ya ta Dalaran. Den ya could see Northrend for yaself," he added darkly.

"Highly unlikely," Strell muttered, his gaze dropping as he considered both his dismal academic performance and his parents' reluctance to let him venture anywhere outside of Eversong. "I don't get it," he continued as he followed the troll out to the back yard.

"What?" Kinzal asked as he grabbed a burlap sack filled with sand from the groundskeeping storehouse.

"What are you doing _here_ when you could be out _there_?" the elf asked with a snort. "It's utterly baffling."

The warrior paused in the middle of drawing a circle onto the bag with an ink-sopped rag. "S'not dat hard to undastand," he said slowly. "Da world outside Silvermoon is not dis grand adventure ya make believe it is."

Strell's brow furrowed with disbelief. "How can you even say that? Live here for more than a few days and I'm sure you'll agree that it is a felhole in its own right," he said with a sneer. "I'd have given anything to have been in your place," he added wistfully. "Why would you ever stop?"

Kinzal huffed. "Dere are a lotta reasons. An' none of 'em are any of ya business," he said tersely.

The elf rolled his eyes and pursed his lips at the troll. "If you're going to keep me isolated out here like some lepergnome, the _least_ you could do is supplement what little entertainment there is to be had with some good stories," he said with a shrug.

"I ain' here as ya _entertainment_," the warrior spat, lifting his chin and giving the elf a look that dared him to say otherwise.

"I know," Strell said flippantly, his dark brows drawing tight. "You're here to trudge after me like some golem that wards off fun and good company. A 'keeper'. Right. At least now I know why my father chose a troll- your great ugly mug could keep any whore worth her salt away," he hissed, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"Ya spoilt rotten," the troll growled, slapping his curled fist against the sandbag, which he now let fall to the ground, the target he had been painting only half finished. "Ungrateful. Ignoran' and naïve witout even realizin' it. An' it's _almost_ not worth da pay ta watch ya make a fool outta yaself and run ya whole life into da ground." His nostrils flared wide as he exhaled, now towering above the rogue in barely restrained rage.

The elf swallowed, knowing that the sound was audible even to Kinzal. His thoughts were muddled with anger- at this troll that had the audacity to say such things to him, at his family, at himself, in small part- and thrown into disorder by fear. Kinzal was intimidating when drawn up to his full height, his mowhawk even adding another foot to his towering form. His parents had apparently given him permission to physically restrain him if he tried to disobey, and looking at the troll now, he did not doubt that excessive force would be used.

Slowly, reluctantly, Strell let his gaze slip to the side, knowing that by looking away first he had surrendered something to the warrior. The thought made him deflate inside.

"Go on. We goin' back inside," Kinzal said sharply, gesturing to the house. "Da last ting I'm gonna do now is put a bow in ya hands," he muttered, picking up the sandbag and heaving it back toward the storehouse. "Ya can entertain yaself, ya ingrate," he added, gripping the rogue's upper arm with viselike strength as he passed, tugging him back to the house with him.

Strell glowered as he was pulled along by the powerful troll, already contemplating a way to escape this oppressive house permanently.

* * *

The next two days were thick with tension. He did not desire to speak with the troll, and neither did the troll seem to want to speak with him. They tolerated each other's company as two beasts forced to weather a snowstorm in the same cave, with stiffened shoulders and much wary glancing.

They spent the daylight hours together as if bound by a heavy chain and chaffing cuffs, always so close that Strell began to grow accustomed to the sound of the troll's deep breaths and the smell of his skin and hair- like sea salt and iron and maybe some sort of fruit- and he _hated_ it. They may have been only feet apart physically, but they were oceans apart in terms of mind and spirit.

Kinzal seemed content to thumb through the books in the library for hours, though Strell couldn't fathom why; nearly all of them were in Thalassian or Common, and he doubted some brutish warrior had any real grasp of _Principia Arcana_ or interest in _The Sunwell: a History_. How the troll could tolerate being cooped up for so long mystified the young elf.

For his own part, the rogue tried to pass the time in the same vein, though he found himself repeatedly stuck on the same sentence or passage, the words never quite sinking in. When he had slammed the book shut in disgust, the troll had made a quiet clucking noise with his tongue. Condescending, as usual- disappointed again.

He had crossed his arms and simmered until his keeper at last saw fit to lead him to another area of the stuffy house to while the hours away.

It wasn't until the morning of the third day that their mutual silence broke.

"Ser Dayborne," the warrior greeted with a nod as he unlocked the bedroom door, interrupting the rogue in the middle of sharpening his vast array of knives.

The elf sat up on his bed, watching Kinzal tuck the key back into his shirt with raised eyebrows. He hadn't expected the troll to be the one to give in and speak. "Good morning," he said flatly, his voice scratchy from lack of use.

The troll nodded and shuffled in, awkwardly folding his long arms behind his back. "So… I seen ya early dis mornin', tryin' to sneak off da property. Ya was wearin' a wig, or had dyed ya hair blond, I thought. Went ta hunt ya down and ya attacked me. Wit' a hammer." The troll's eyes were uncharacteristically wide and his mouth was set into a curious line.

"I see you met my brother," the rogue said with a slowly growing smile. The more he imagined the scene, the less he could resist laughing. "We don't even look much alike," he commented, an eyebrow arched.

The troll waved him off. "Ya all look pretty similar ta me, mon. Ya hair was even da same, just a differen' color."

Strell groaned and tossed his head back. "Don't get me started. I had it cut this way first, you know. Torril copied _me_."

They both chuckled quietly, and then the awkwardness returned. The elf was quietly surprised by how easy it was to talk to the warrior again; it seemed the days of silence had left him more starved for contact than he had realized. He picked up a blade and a sharpening stone and set to filling the silence with _something_.

"Didn' realize ya had a brother," Kinzal said after a few moments. He gave Strell a curious look as he crouched down next to the bed.

"Yes, well… Mother never did like my being with him. And his orders to avoid me obviously extend to include you, so it's no surprise you've gone so long without seeing one lick of him. Although even if I weren't in the picture, you'd probably be off-limits, being a great troll and all. No offense," the rogue added quickly, his dark eyebrows shooting up apologetically. "It's just that Torril can't risk being seen with the wrong sorts."

The warrior let out a rumbling hum as he considered this. "I be used ta blood elves tinkin' I be… foul. Stupid. Dat stuff," the troll explained as he picked up a small sharpening stone from the edge of the bed and began tossing it up into the air. "But… why are _you_ da wrong sort?"

Strell paused in his sharpening. "I… it's personal," he said uneasily. "Family business."

Kinzal nodded once. "I got ya. Tink no more of it. Unless… ya ever want ta. Y'know. Talk 'bout it." He coughed and rubbed at his large nose with the back of his knuckles. "Dese ears was made for listenin'. Dat's why da loa gave em' to us so big."

The elf smiled to himself and continued running the stone along the edge of the blade. "Well, I suppose the gist of it isn't so personal. You've seen how I am," he said with a shrug. "Incorrigible. Deviant. An utter disappointment. Torril, however, is quite the upstanding young lord, and it wouldn't do to have me tarnish his reputation by association."

The warrior sighed and nodded, chewing at his thumbnail as he listened. "Listen, Ser Dayborne," he said heavily, "I wanted ta apologize. For what I said ta ya a few days ago," he said, shifting uncomfortably.

Strell perked up and paid attention, his strokes against the blade slowing.

"I forget sometimes," Kinzal continued, "ya ain' had a chance ta see what I seen yet. Ya still green," he murmured, scratching at his chin. "Ya _are_ too insistent and obnoxious for ya own good at times," he cautioned, "but ya ain' as bad as all dat."

The rogue poked his tongue in his cheek, mulling the words over.

"An' I know dese days holed up here been rough on ya. I know dat," he sighed. "So if ya can promise ta behave, I wanna let ya stretch out ya legs."

"Thank you," Strell said stiffly. "I… I also said some rather unkind things," he added with a touch of sheepishness. "I apologize. I may be a scoundrel, but even so- my words were quite inexcusable," he said.

"I heard worse den dat before, mon," the warrior grinned. "Now put on ya boots an' let's get outta here. I'm goin' stir crazy in dis place."

The elf beamed as he leapt off of his bed, still pulling his shoes on as he followed the troll out the door.

* * *

"Well then, where to?" the elf asked exuberantly.

"Ta somewhere ya won't be disgracin' ya family," Kinzal replied with a snort. He led the elf further along, past a copse of trees.

Strell pursed his lips at that. "A tavern?" he chanced to ask.

"Nah."

"I'll behave," he promised quickly, sidling closer to the troll.

"After da state I found ya in da last time? I don' tink ya _can_ behave," he said with a laugh.

Strell's spine tingled at the sound, the feeling somewhere in between a shudder and the quickening that came before a heist. It was off-putting, to say the least.

"Ya be a _crazy_ blood elf for sure, mon," Kinzal added quietly, shaking his head. The tall fan of his hair rippled from the action.

"I'll ignore that," the rogue said flatly. "So where _am_ I permitted to go?" he asked in exasperation.

"I be tinkin' maybe we could go fishin'," the troll said with a shrug.

"Fishing? _Fishing_?" Strell staggered dramatically. "I didn't think it was possible, but you actually made me rather be at home. Was that your plan all along? Clever, clever."

Kinzal stopped and turned to face him, an incredulous expression in place. "You a real piece a work," he chuckled. "Come on, jus' try it. It ain' dat boring."

"I've never fished before," the elf complained as they drew close to the pond that lay on the fringe of their land. He noted two fishing poles had already been left against a nearby tree.

"It's easy," the warrior assured him. "If some squirt of a gnome can do it, I know ya can."

He showed Strell how to cast his line, and within fifteen minutes they were both sitting on the bank and waiting quietly for something to bite.

"So… did you do a lot of fishing in Northrend?" the elf asked after a few uneventful minutes. He glanced at the troll inquisitively.

"Ya don' give up, do ya?" Kinzal said with a hollow laugh. "Yeah, I done some fishin' up dere. In da beginnin'. Further north… most of da inland water was frozen solid. Or fouled. Too many corpses, not enough ground," he sighed, reeling in his line and recasting it.

Strell's eager expression gave way, just a little. "But it's exciting up there, corpses aside," he said as a matter of fact. "I'd go in a heartbeat," he added as he gave his fishing pole a littler swish, already feeling tingles of anticipation just from talking about it. "Take a dragonhawk to the Undercity, catch the first zeppelin to the Howling Fjord. And I'd never come back."

"You wouldn' wanna go ta Northrend," the troll said dismissively. "Full o' undead, colder 'n da coldest night in Wintersping."

"No, I do- it sounds amazing," Strell argued. He sat up on his knees, grinning widely. "I've heard the veterans talking about it in the taverns. Apparently Dalaran has an Underbelly? Sounds marvelous! And a whole continent that's just… lawless. Wild. You could do anything there. Be anyone," he said wistfully.

"It's overrated," Kinzal warned, furiously reeling in his line before throwing it back out.

The elf gave him a look of total disagreement. "If it's so awful, why did you go?" he asked scathingly.

The troll shrugged. "For da pay. Not all of us got money in da bank like you, mon," he said quietly. "Ain' no place for a warrior like me ta earn much here, til dis job turned up. We gotta go where da battle is. And it ain' dis life you tink it is, fightin' for every meal and makin' ya livin' on da frontlines. It's grunt work."

"But you got to choose it," Strell countered sharply.

"Ya hopeless," the warrior sighed, looking up to the skies for some benevolent aid. "Ancestors, gimme da strength ta handle dis little elf."

The rogue chuckled to himself and slowly pulled in his line, making a displeased noise when he found a waterlogged boot hooked on the end. "Well, it seems I have caught us our dinner! No need to thank me, my good keeper. If you would kindly gut it for me, I will prepare the fire," he teased as he dangled the slippery boot in front of the troll's long nose.

Kinzal spat and pushed the soggy thing away. "Dis place awful for fishin'," he said, looking miffed. "Sorry… I was tinkin' we'd have gotten a bit more outta it."

"No, it's fine," Strell said with a lengthy sigh. He tossed the old boot back, grinning as it hit the water with a loud plunk. "It's better than sitting in that damn library for hours."

The warrior shrugged in silent agreement, but he seemed troubled as he gathered up the fishing poles and set them back against the tree.

Suddenly, Strell tasted opportunity. He stifled a wicked grin as he crept closer to the troll, schooling his expression into a mix of disappointment and hope. "It does make the afternoon feel like a bit of a waste, I suppose," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Kinzal agreed, gesturing for the elf to follow him.

Strell stepped lightly after him, his hands behind his back as he continued, "If there's nothing better to do, and we already tried your diversion… perhaps we could try visiting a bar or tavern after all?" he asked, anxiously biting his lip.

"Ya madda said no," the troll grumbled as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Kinzal, please," the rogue pleaded. "You have no idea how badly I need a drink right now. Or seven."

"If ya remember," the warrior said in a voice just above a whisper, stopping to face the elf, "I'm supposed ta be keepin' ya from lettin' spirits get da best of ya. An' I don' mean da ancestral kind," he added sharply.

"Fine, fine. I won't overindulge. You'll be right there to make sure I don't have too much, and we'll leave in like an hour. Less, even," he said quickly, darting in front of the troll. "There's a country one not too far from here. I have a few gold tucked in my boot. Enough for you to have a beer as well," he added cautiously.

"I can afford my own beer," Kinzal snorted, waving off the elf. "Fine. Just dis once, I'mma let ya do dis. But ya get _one_ drink, an' when I say we're leavin' I don' wanna hear any whinin' from ya," he said, waving one large finger at the rogue. He grumbled under his breath as he gestured for Strell to take the lead.

And despite the troll's sullen demeanor, Strell felt like skipping all the way to the Summervale tavern. He walked as briskly as he thought he could without Kinzal admonishing him, only slowing to fix his hair and straighten his clothes when they reached the door of the tavern on the fringe of the sleepy little town.

The elf grinned from ear to ear as he stepped inside, the barmaiden greeting him with a welcoming smile… that quickly soured when Kinzal entered after him.

He immediately took a seat at the bar and flashed her his most winning smile, and a little of her pervious charm came back.

"What can I get for you, handsome?"

"Gin, please. Not Summersfield. White Hawkstrider, if you have it," he said as he pulled off his gloves.

"Of course," she replied with a fluttering of her eyelashes. She turned slightly dour as she addressed his troll companion. "I'm afraid we don't have any mugs that are… compatible with such large tusks," she said with a falsely charming smile. She looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to take the hint and leave.

"I'm used ta it," Kinzal said flatly. "Get me whateva ya got on tap dat's orcish. Or of tauren make. I ain' too picky." He slid a dozen silvers across the countertop, his dark amber eyes following the barmaid as she reluctantly gathered his money and set to filling their drinks.

She placed a tall, frothing mug in front of Kinzal and a small glass in front of Strell and then turned wordlessly to serve other customers.

The dark-haired elf chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink. "You sure shut her up."

The warrior shrugged. "Da Horde's been good ta us, but dere's still places we trolls ain' exactly made welcome," he muttered before tilting his head and positioning the crystal mug at an angle between his tusks while he drank. "Ain' nuttin', though. Ya kill a lich or two an' tellin' off a snarky shopkeep don' seem like such a big deal anymore, ya know?"

"A _lich_? You must tell me everything," Strell pleaded, his eyes shining as he wiped his mouth and set his glass down with a clink.

"Nah," the troll murmured, staring down into his drink. "I shouldn' have mentioned dat aroun' ya, huh?"

"No, not very wise of you," the rogue agreed, a wry smile at his lips. His eyebrows suddenly shot up as he glanced past Kinzal. "Oh! I know her!" He turned to the troll with imploring eyes and a borderline pout. "Can I please have some modicum of social interaction before we go home? Please? Please?"

"Two minutes, and I'mma be watchin' ya like a hawk," he told the elf sternly. "Ya even set one foot towards da door and I'll be makin' a scene that'll follow ya ta da grave."

"Oh?" Strell asked as he slipped from the barstool, undeniably intrigued.

"Ya, mon. So unless ya'd like me ta start screechin' about how da healer said ya sores still be contagious, ya better not get any smart ideas," he warned, a devious glint in his dark eyes.

"Point taken," the rogue said with a smile. He quickly crossed the room until he reached the table of the woman with the familiar face, a fashionable but somewhat vulgar lady by the name of Effira.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked in her long, tapered ear before grinning and pulling out the chair beside her.

"Strell?" she asked as she turned in her seat. "It _is_ you! Darling, where have you been? The rumors in Murder Row have been spiraling out of control! Kidnapped by the Amani, recruited by that dastardly rogue Arcelia, run away to join the Darkmoon Faire-"

"No!" he said in surprise. In truth, his warmed his heart to know that people had noticed that he was missing from his usual haunts- another bit of evidence that his lifestyle wasn't quite as soulless as his family would have him believe.

"Yes! Everyone insists they know where you have gone, and here I find you in a simple country tavern. And- in the company of a troll, no less," she said with a scandalized look, her eyes darting toward the great figure by the door. "Ah! Someone said that you have been dragged out of Madame Springbloom's tavern by a troll! I had assumed it just a silly story! No wonder they fear you've been taken by some errant Amani," she said breathlessly.

"Yes, well, _he_ is where I have been all these days," Strell said glumly.

"Oh," Effira said quickly, covering her mouth with a lace-gloved hand. "I didn't… oh my, a troll lover. What is it like?" she asked conspiratorially. "I mean, outstanding, obviously, if you've been holed away with him out here for this long-"

"_Lover_? No, don't be absurd," he scoffed, shaking his head. "He is my new nanny, courtesy of my family. I am forbidden to indulge in any of my favored pastimes, instead being forced to spend my time in _his_ company. Only now was I able to convince him to let me out for a drink," he complained.

"Oh, you poor, poor thing," the female elf murmured, though her gaze seemed drawn back to Kinzal time and time again. "Well, why not… flee? You are light-footed and swift, and good with the shadows," she added in hushed tones. "I could house you for a time, as could others."

Strell smiled gratefully at that, affection surging within him. "Thank you. I may well take you up on that offer- but not just yet."

"Not yet?"

"Being a good rogue is as much about timing as anything else," he said with a smirk. "I intend to leave for good, but now is not the most opportune time," he sighed. "I will contact you when I do, though."

"Fabulous!" she said with a soft giggle. "And by then you'll have _so_ many stories. I'll have to entertain nightly for as long as you are with me! A troll, _really_. How positively… barbaric," she whispered, biting her lip as she glanced once more at the warrior idly spinning his empty mug on the countertop.

"Effira," Strell said disapprovingly. "No."

"What?" the other elf asked innocently. "But… perhaps you could mention me to him? Just in passing. Gauge his interest," she said casually.

"I'm leaving," the rogue said, standing abruptly. He gave her a look of mock disappointment first.

"Ask him if he has a brother," she hissed after him, grinning to herself as she swatted Strell on the rear for good measure. "Goodbye, darling! I hope to see you and your friend soon!"

The elf was still laughing to himself by the time he reached a bored-looking Kinzal. "You didn't enjoy yourself at all here?" he asked with a quick arch of his brow. He was mystified at how someone could prefer sitting curled up with a dusty old tome over carousing and chatting with friends.

"Not as much as _you_ did," the troll snorted, studying the still-smirking rogue. "Let's go, mon. I got da heebie-jeebies from all dese elves eyein' me," he said with a shudder.

"After you," Strell chuckled as he followed Kinzal out of the tavern and back toward the estate; he followed at the troll's heels, a decent and obedient ward… for now.

* * *

**I'm not exactly the best with plot and stuff, but I'm going to be trying a little more with this one. We'll see how it goes I guess!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not super content with this, but the more I sit on it, the more problems I have with it, and it's already so fucking long…  
Thank you for the reviews so far! I'm trying to be more detailed, but… I feel like I pick really pointless things to describe.**

* * *

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of unrelenting ennui. Three weeks of playing games of Death's Draw and Four Seasons and Rich Man, Poor Man until his father's deck of cards had worn edges and fading ink and two missing aces. Three weeks of musty library visits and viewing the garden. Three weeks of failed attempts to lure more of Kinzal's history out of him.

Three weeks of waiting for a chance to slip out of the grasp of his keeper and his family and this whole way of life.

He had always been less than fond of the family house. Or perhaps not _always_.

After his first visit to the home of a common elf, certainly. It was the butcher's son, if he remembered correctly. His first partner in crime, his first sparring partner, his first friend, as brief as their acquaintance was- he'd been killed years ago in the invasion, and his family with him, as so many did. But before all that, he and his family had welcomed the spur-of-the-moment visit from the noble's son, hastily clearing off tables and arranging the seating for him.

They'd been more gracious than any wellborn family he had ever been hosted by, the house lively with the sound of their three young children and imbued with a warmth that he had never noticed was missing in his own. Returning home after that evening had been a clarifying moment, one more step along the path to where he was now, an unwilling occupant of a home that forever seemed too large for the four of them to ever wind up in the same room.

The halls had always seemed larger, after that, the rooms colder, even when the hearths blazed. He knew it was not _literal_ warmth they lacked, in the same way that a small part of him knew that it was not the house itself he had quarrel with.

But it was easier to direct his anger at these unforgiving walls, these dreary rooms- most of all against the library that always smelled of old tea and even older paper.

"How can you stand to sit there and read that?" He had to ask. It was eating at him. He scrutinized the blue-skinned troll that he had become so frustratingly familiar with as he read on, apparently continuing on to the bottom of the page before addressing the question.

"'S interesting," Kinzal replied with a shrug, one large finger keeping track of his place within the thick tome on Dwarven casting techniques. "How people figured out dis stuff. An' ya got all dis history, all dese words, righ' here at ya fingertips." His mouth quirked to the side, lip curling back from his right tusk. "Darkspear ain' got books, really. We got _stories_, yeah, lotta stories. Witch doctahs an' lore keepers who pass down da tings we know. But pretty much all da books got left behind on da isles, lost, and ain' no one had time ta write anyting new down."

Strell watched the troll run his fingertips down the spine of the musty old tome, the gesture almost fond. "I happen to prefer stories. Books… it's like conversing with the dead," he said with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. "There's no interaction there, no feeling. Just some… _remains_ of someone. A little shred of their knowledge, nothing more. And it's almost invariably _insufferably_ dry."

"Some topics are gonna be borin' whether they on paper or an elder's tongue," Kinzal scoffed. "Get boxed on da ears one too many times for askin' da doctah ta repeat sometin', and you'll be comin' ta appreciate dese tings," he said with an assured cock of his head, the book cradled against his chest.

"Have some harpy of a governess push your nose into the grease stained pages penned by some balding old priest for four hours each day for the better part of your life and you might be soured on them," the elf replied tonelessly, recalling their extensive studies on the philosophies of the light as explained by Platinus Lightward. Torril had, of course, eaten it all right up. Strell had gotten thumped on the side of his head for fluidly inserting dirty words into his recitations of famous passages.

"Well," the warrior sighed, looking mildly sympathetic. "I ain' really one for da light an' all dat. But I ain' really one for dwarves, either," he said with a little sneer, "an' dis is still a good read. We could probably make some of dis stuff, actually," he commented.

"Make stuff? What stuff?" the elf asked as he sat up in his seat.

The troll cracked the book open and peered at it again. "Da bowls look easy. But technically, I tink ya could make just about anyting dat ya can carve into da mold. Statues. Plates? I dunno. Anyting."

"Could we do that? Could we make something? _Do_ something? Like, with our hands?" he asked eagerly, holding his two hands out before him and looking down at them hopefully.

"I gotta make sure we got da stuff we'll be needin'," Kinzal explained, one thick finger tapping against the cover of the book as he thought. "But yeah, sure. I'll tell ya madda an' fadda it be for educational purposes."

"Then let's go," the elf said immediately, his book falling from his lap and thumping to the floor in his eagerness to flee the stuffy library.

It had taken longer than Strell had anticipated to prepare for their crafting session, and it _was_ educational, to his surprise. He had mostly just watched as Kinzal read out measurements from the book and poured a number of different substances into the mixer filled with sand in order to make it stable for their use, but he took note of the minerals and the technique. By the end, the sandy mix was black and dense and held its form easily, as though it was damp.

The elf grinned as he grabbed a handful and squeezed; when he unfolded his hand, a tightly packed ball of blackened sand remained. "How remarkable," he commented as he casually tossed it up in the air.

Strell casually pelted the troll with balled up sand as he worked to make the molds for their bowls, his large blue hands turning a mottled midnight blue from the wrists down. Kinzal grumbled and snapped warnings about hurtling the packed sand at his little elf head, all of which the rogue ignored- until a mass of black sand the size of a hawkstrider's egg went whizzing past his ear.

He'd made a truce then, and he'd settled on the sand-flecked grass beside the troll to watch him finish carefully sculpting and smoothing the two halves of each of their molds.

"Now, what we wanna do is carve da designs for da outside of da bowl _here_, and for da inside on _here_," the troll explained, still fruitlessly trying to dig sand out of his ears with his oversized fingers. He paused for a moment to tip his head to the side and shake it. "Den we'll stick 'em togetha and pour in da iron- or bronze or whateva- and we be done."

Strell twisted up his long, dark locks and shrugged. "Sounds easy enough. So, what are you going to draw on yours?" he asked as he pulled his mold onto his lap.

"Oh." The warrior sat dumbly for a moment. He set down his mold of pressed sand and eased back, abandoning his crouch for a cross-legged seat on the springy grass. "I dunno. What are _you_ gonna draw?"

The rogue braced himself and leaned back, staring up into the blue, cloud-streaked sky. "It's a lot to choose from, isn't it?" He whistled softly as he watched the thin wisps of white slowly stretch and turn. He thought back to the royal sculptors and renowned artists they had studied as children, picturing the blossoming trees spun from gold and carved dragonhawks that stood stories high. But learning of art was much different than actually _doing_ it, and they had been taught nothing of how to create it.

"What did you decide to do?" the elf asked after another few minutes had passed and the warrior was etching at the sand with a look of deep concentration. Strell's pale lips curved as an idea suddenly came to him. He angled his mold up so that his watcher could not yet see his own endeavor.

The troll held up the concave form of his mold and Strell squinted, wondering if maybe he was seeing it upside down. "It's a rapta," the troll supplied after a few seconds of silence. "Dat's da tail, and dere's de- ya know, nevamind," he sighed, quickly wiping away the scribbled reptile with the heel of his hand. "What abou' you?"

The rogue finished one last curve and then held his up proudly. In his sand, he had etched a crudely drawn penis. "What do you think? The centerpiece for Pilgrim's Bounty? Or perhaps Winter's Veil… oh, who am I kidding? Both."

"Oh, mon, I wouldn' display _dat_," the troll said with a cluck of his tongue. He grinned as he hurriedly drew something into his own sand, all long, smooth strokes. "Not next to dis one, at least. It'd jus' make all da elf guests feel inferior." He held up his mold, in which an even longer and girthier prick had been carved with an attention to detail that actually impressed the elf.

Enough detail that he had a sneaking suspicion that Kinzal had based it on his own. "That's not a faithful reproduction, I hope," Strell said flatly, refusing to believe it could be anything but an exaggeration. "You'd put someone's eye out with that thing."

Kinzal just laughed, the low sound simultaneously pleasing the elf and grating on his nerves. "But really, ya gotta smooth dat down and start over. I tink ya madda would question my influence on ya."

"As she should, you scoundrel," the rogue said with a devious wink. "I'm beginning to question it myself. Piquing my interest in trollish nethers like that?" He arched a slender brow. "You're clearly out to corrupt my virtue."

The warrior barked out a laugh at that. "Virtue? Ya be about as virtuous as Ah'tusa."

"Ah'tusa?" Strell asked, his brows drawn together in confusion.

"From Forbidden Love, da romance nov- nevermind," the troll said quickly, clearing his throat.

"Oh? _Now_ I see why you want to spend all of our time in the library," the elf said playfully, smiling through the dark hair that the sudden wind had cast across his face. He glanced up briefly, noting how supplely the troll's fan of hair bent with the breeze, not at all rigid and unyielding as he had imagined it might be.

"No, dat's not-"

"You'll find my father has none of that tripe, filled with scantily clad women with heaving bosoms and well endowed knights in compromising positions," he said with an indignant sniff. "I would know, I have checked…"

"Dem books'd turn up sometimes out questin'," Kinzal explained, his cheeks and long ears tinged dark with a blush. "It'd help pass da time."

"Oh, I'll bet they were _very_ helpful," the rogue said with a scandalous waggle of his eyebrows, "with 'passing the time'. Is _that_ what they call it up in Northrend?" he tutted.

The troll groaned and redoubled his efforts at scratching a drawing into the sand, this time a simple pattern of leaves and what appeared to be tribal markings and symbols.

"Is that Darkspear stuff?" the elf asked as he leaned over to get a better look at the warrior's creation, gesturing at the decoration. Intricate lines and zigzags were beginning to curve around the bowl-shaped indention in the sand, all with a steady hand and not the least bit crooked.

Kinzal nodded and blew away some loose sand. "Is dat some elf stuff?" he returned, peering over at the fine swirls and knots that laced the rogue's mold. "S'real pretty lookin'."

"Indeed it is," Strell replied. "But I'm going to hide a prick in it somewhere," he said matter-of-factly, earning a low, rumbling chuckle from the troll.

Once they had both reached a point where they were content with their designs, the troll carefully crated their sand molds and promised to take them to a forge to be poured with iron as soon as it was possible.

"What now?" the elf asked as he dusted black sand from his hands. His pale cream shirt and plain leather pants were stained from the black sand, and he didn't doubt that his face was streaked with it as well.

"Well, we already pretty dirty," Kinzal muttered, peering down at his black-flecked clothing and skin. "So I was tinkin' we'd try fishin' again."

"No," Strell groaned, leaning against a wall sullenly. "Not again."

"Not… dat kinda fishin'," the warrior said slowly as he turned on his heel.

He refused to say anything more on the subject, and Strell, tantalized by both the mystery and the hope that it could be entertaining for a few hours, followed at his heel. He paid no mind to the golden trees and their brilliant, autumnal leaves; they were the same trees as all of Eversong had, and even beauty grew bland when it was all there was to be seen.

He _did _watch Kinzal, though, who kept turning his head to scan each one from trunk to treetop, as if no two were interchangeable. Strell found himself half wishing he could see the forest through the troll's eyes, to know how it was that he drew such fascination from the things that were like background noise to him.

When they reached the same pond as before, the elf frowned and crossed his arms as he looked expectantly to the troll. "I thought this place had no fish."

"Oh, it does," Kinzal muttered as he bent to roll up his pant legs. "Dey just hidin'. Fishin' line ain' gonna get 'em out."

"So?"

"We go in afta 'em." The troll gave him a toothy grin as he waded out into the pond.

"And how exactly do you catch them?" the rogue asked as he bounded in after the warrior, his excessive splashing earning him a long suffering sigh from his keeper.

"Ya feel aroun' for holes wit ya feet," he explained as he swept his foot along the floor, "an' when ya find one, ya reach in an' grab da fish. Or snake. Or whateva's in dere, really."

"That sounds like a good way to lose a finger or two," the elf muttered, standing waist deep in the murky water with little intention of blindly sticking his limbs down holes.

"Eh, what's one finger or toe gonna hurt? Oh, wait... elves don' grow dem back, do dey?" the troll asked with a grimace.

Strell shook his head. "No, we do not. Else Eight-Toe Terval might not have wound up with such an unfortunate nickname," he said with a little shrug. "So, have you ever lost a finger or toe doing this?"

"Yeah. Well, not doin' dis," Kinzal amended. "But yeah. I was still shovin' a cannonball into da barrel when dey set it off… I like ta tink dat a little bit of me helped take out dem felguards," he said with a brief laugh. "See?"

He held up his right hand and wriggled the second finger. Strell stepped closer to compare it to the others. "It looks a little bigger," he noted. "And half a shade darker."

"Yeah, dey say dat's what happens."

"Does it happen with _every_ body part that a troll loses?" the elf asked lasciviously.

"Dat's what dey say," Kinzal intoned, giving him a knowing grin, "but I never been brave enough ta test it on anyting _real_ important," he added in a mumble. "An' I don' know anyone dat has."

Strell nodded, standing waist-deep in the cloudy brown water, his arms crossed as he frowned at his murky reflection. "Let me know when you feel a bite."

The warrior grumbled a response, stooped to his shoulders in pondwater as he skimmed the bottom. "Ya support is real heartenin'."

The elf rolled his eyes and began sliding his booted feet through the mud, feeling like an idiot. He had no doubt that he looked the part as well, but considering that only Kinzal was here to bear witness, he only minded a little.

After a few minutes of shuffling through the muck, Strell decided that he wasn't all that interested in becoming known as Seven-Toe Strell or something equally abominable and ceased his searching. As he watched Kinzal still steadfastly checking the muddy nooks and crannies of the pond an idea for a different sort of entertainment came to him.

As silently as possible, he slid closer to the troll. The troll was still focused on his fish hunt, his strong back tense as he hunched to check the muddy pits along the side of the pond- and completely oblivious as the elf eased behind him.

"I just felt something move past me," Strell said with a short gasp, going rigidly still with his arms hoisted above the water. As Kinzal turned toward him, the elf balanced on one leg, extended the other, and let his toe brush against the warrior.

The troll stilled, then tried to peer into the muddy depths around them. "Didn' feel like no fish ta me," he murmured, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"There it was again," the elf said quickly, a grin splitting his lips despite himself. This time, he ran his soggy, boot covered foot up Kinzal's leg, a real gasp escaping him as he bumped into something that was unmistakably a rather sensitive part of the troll's anatomy.

"Caught it," Kinzal said flatly, the look in his eyes equal parts amused and triumphant.

Strell felt the hand around his ankle at the same time as he felt his balance pulled out from under him and water rushing about his ears.

He coughed and sputtered as he bobbed back to the surface, flipping back his long locks that had turned an even darker shade from the muddied water and wiping the unpleasant smelling water from his eyes. "You didn't have to do _that_," he said hotly.

"Ya madda an' fadda made it real clear dat if ya was ta try an' get frisky, I'm ta shut ya down," the troll said with a shrug. "I figure a little water gonna cool ya head-"

"I wasn't- that's not," the rogue spat, splashing the water around him in frustration. "I wasn't trying to _seduce_ you, for Light's sake. You… thrice-damned troll," he breathed as he waded closer to shore. "Your ego is out of control-"

Kinzal barked out a laugh and resumed his slow search of the waters. "Well, if dat ain' the raven callin' da crow black."

"As if I'd seriously consider fucking a troll. I have _standards_," Strell insisted, his glare murderous as he wrung out his hair.

The troll paused briefly in his fishing through the mud, his hunched back facing the rogue. "Ah. Alrigh'."

The elf sobered slightly, his anger falling to a simmer. "Not… I don't mean…"He stopped, not quite certain of what he meant. Kinzal was undesirable in _many_ respects; but then, the same was said of Strell's favored friends and acquaintances, and even of himself. "I fear my skill with throwing daggers will never quite measure up to my ability to sling verbal barbs at a moment's notice," he said quietly from the bank.

Kinzal sighed and rose up out of the water, apparently abandoning his fish hunt.

Dark water ran down him in rivulets, tracing the outlines of pronounced muscles through his soaked clothing; it drew the elf's eye to the stretch of glistening blue skin exposed at his hips, where drops clung to the trail of dark red-orange hair below his navel. Despite his earlier words, Strell found he had to tear his gaze from the troll and force it to rest on the nearest pale-gold barked tree.

"'S okay, Master Dayborne," Kinzal said from nearby. "'S for da best if ya do feel dat way. I'd be out on my ass if ya madda so much as _thought_ ya saw me like dat. My fault anyway. Shouldn' have said dat. Shouldn' have _done_ dat," the warrior said with a despondent look at his soaking wet ward. "Ain'… professional. I just- I be gettin' too familiar wit ya. My apologies, ser."

"Please," Strell said with a soft groan, his slender brows upturned in a sincere plea, "don't be professional. Be familiar. Just don't dunk me under that filthy water again. I much prefer you teasing me back, even if I am an ass about it." He pinched the bridge of his nose as they began a slow walk back to the house. "It's not you-"

"Uh huh," Kinzal grunted from beside him.

"It's not," the elf insisted. "It's _them_. I'm sorry. I just get so nettled when they… assume these things about me," he muttered. "That they told you to expect that of me. That they even _think_ about me like that," he said with a shudder. "Like I'm so desperate that when I'm cut off from everyone else I'll turn on you simply because you're _here_. They hired a non-elf specifically to prevent that, but apparently that wasn't even enough reassurance for them."

Strell couldn't help but quietly think that his parents were right to worry, given how he'd eyed the soaked troll a few moments before, but he dismissed the thought.

Kinzal made a quiet humming sound.

"I have no interest in proving them right," the elf added as they rounded one of the stout trees at the edge of the wood, where the grass grew short and springy and the hills were dotted with artfully maintained topiaries.

"I got no interest in losin' my job," the troll replied with a shrug as they passed the pavilion that sat ringed by golden-leafed trees.

"Good," Strell said, nodding. "Good."

The proceeded in silence the rest of the way, both of them ignoring the stares of the other servants as they crossed the grounds and wove their way through the house. By then they were merely damp rather than dripping, but the elf noticed they had both left a trail of grime behind them on the pale marble and gleaming wooden floors.

"Are you to lock me in?" Strell asked when they reached the landing before his bedroom.

"Just until dinner," the warrior said apologetically. "I gotta go clean up, though, an' ya best do da same," he said as he pulled out the chain and the key that dangled from it. "I know ya havin' a family dinner tonight, so I'll be by when ya finished ta lock ya in for da night."

"We can't do anything this evening?" the elf asked, biting his lip.

"I get one night off a week, Ser Dayborne," Kinzal said heavily. "I-"

"Yes," Strell interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. "Yes, I know. Just me being your selfish ward, as usual."

The troll gave him a lopsided smile, his face still streaked with dirt and mud. "If it's any consolation to ya, I'll be spendin' it payin' bills."

The rogue frowned. "Don't do that. You can do boring shit like that when you're watching me," he said with a shrug. "Go find one of the stable hands and have a roll in the hay. Do something fun for a change."

"I gotta inklin' feelin' dat ya madda'd have me castrated," the troll said with a dark chuckle, which Strell was forced to join in on.

"Perhaps," the dark-haired elf sighed. "But maybe not- servants fuck each other all the time. You know, though… you wouldn't be unwelcome at a brothel," he told the troll. "There are whores that are used to orcs and trolls, even tauren. Does Northrend have brothels?" he asked in the same breath, his brows knitting together. "Oh, wait. Dalaran. Of course it must. I can only imagine the wand puns."

"Ya should see da signs," Kinzal said with a faint smirk. "I always had dis awe for magic… an' den I saw it used ta make a five-foot dick shower us in glitter when we entered Da Wooden Wand. Kinda makes ya see what dem blue dragons be complainin' about," he said thoughtfully.

Strell smiled slowly. "What color glitter?"

The troll glanced up as he recalled. "White and silver."

"Of course it was," the elf sighed, openly grinning. "Well, I won't hold you any longer. I'll see you after dinner. Briefly."

"I'll get ya some locks ta mess with," the troll promised.

"No, don't worry about it," Strell said as he began to close the door, still harboring a bit of guilt at his earlier behavior. "Kinzal," he said at the last moment. The troll paused with his hand on the outer doorknob, looking at him expectantly. "Thank you. That was… fun. Surprisingly. It was the best day so far."

The warrior smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The amber of his irises suddenly seemed alight. "Da bowls. _Dat's_ what I'll go do," he said, remembering their molds. "Shouldn' take long, either."

Strell thanked him, then watched the door click shut and heard the delicate clinking of the lock.

* * *

Family dinners were the worst. Strell tried not to dwell on the way his mother fawned over Torril's progress in his training, or his brother's meek interest in what he and Kinzal had gotten up to that day, or his father's preoccupied look throughout the meal.

It had been four courses too long, the rogue decided as he worked on the set of locks that Kinzal had gotten for him. He spent nearly an hour on the last one, a sizeable pile of broken lockpicks resting beside it before he finally cracked the bastard.

It almost made up for the stifling event that dinner had been. But it couldn't make up for the hours without the troll's company.

Strell was vexed to find that he had become more reliant on his keeper than he had ever intended. He'd imagined Kinzal would be a new incarnation of his governess, someone harsh and overbearing, someone to spite and heckle at every turn, someone who would in turn make his life more miserable by the day. Instead, he found he was almost lost without him. It unnerved him more than anything else.

He glanced out the wide, three-paned window that looked out over the back of their yard. It _felt_ like midnight, but it was hard to guess at the time from the darkened clouds and the rain splattering against the glass.

Kinzal had gone in hours ago. And Strell felt more than a creep for having watched him from the window, but there was just nothing else to _do_, aside from practice lockpicking. The troll seemed to have taken his advice come late evening, having settled in close under a lantern in the stables with one of the girls that tended to the hawkstriders. He stayed with her for over an hour.

Strell didn't recall her name, but he knew her well enough. A pretty thing, innocent and shy. She had bashfully turned him away when he tried to bed her months ago; he had to admit, it stung a little that she was apparently willing to have Kinzal over him. But then again, the troll _did_ seem the sort that wouldn't steal away before dawn, and maidens seemed to like that.

The dark-haired elf frowned as he thought of the warrior and the stable hand, absently clinking two picks together as he laid on the floor. It also stung a little that Kinzal had chosen _her_. If the troll preferred women, that was well enough. It was no hard feat to sway such a man. But if he preferred blushing virgins with sweet manners, then Strell was out of luck. _Torril'd have a better chance than I do_, he thought with a half-frown.

Not that it mattered. Even if he _was_ tempted to fuck Kinzal, he certainly wouldn't be doing it so long as his parents had them both on leashes. He didn't doubt for a second that his mother would spread the troll's name far and wide if she found out he'd hopped into bed with her son, and likely trump up the accusation to ruin his chances of landing a job anywhere in Silvermoon.

No, it was better that he not concern himself over it. Kinzal could do as he liked on his night off, and Strell had him all the rest of the week. His company was more valuable than a quick lay, certainly, and Strell _wasn't_ desperate. Not yet, at least.

The elf stretched, groaning as his back popped. A yawn stretched his mouth wide and he stowed the locks and picks back into a drawer before snuffing out the candles, the loss of their magically enhanced glow plunging the room into darkness.

A darkness that the elf _liked_. It made him feel comfortable, a shadow within shadows, protected from the eyes of servants and gossiping nobles. Torril had always shied away from dark places when they were children, while Strell sought them out- closets and cupboards and the dank spaces under old bridges, even hollowed out logs.

Strell slowly stripped off his clothing until he was left in nothing but his underclothes. That he slept in such a state seemed a constant source of scandal for the household, but he found it rather rewarding- both because it was comfortable and because it had led to the eventual cessation of early morning visits from servants trying to rouse him from his sleep.

He paused as he passed the window on the way to his bed. It seemed that the moons had managed to peek through the cloud cover; though rain still pattered against the glass heavily, pale, faint light managed to catch on the dozens of tiny bells strung just outside.

The young rogue sighed, listening to the faint sounds of their clinking and ringing as the wind and rain jostled them. His gaze drifted past the confounding bells and over the muddied garden, and at the edge of the woods-

At the edge of the woods. His long, slender eyebrows drew together as he pressed his nose to the cool glass, struggling to make sense of what he saw outside. With comprehension came a sudden twist of alarm; felt his heart push painfully within his chest, as if suddenly pressed against his ribs by some unseen hand.

Not more than thirty yards away, there was a woman dressed in a white gown that was soaked through; it clung to her, wrapped around her, made her pale as a banshee ghosting over the earth. For a moment, that was Strell's fear- a banshee hovering at the edge of their grounds, the villain of a children's tale come to sing them out of their beds and into their graves.

But he cast off the panicked thought when he saw that she was not alone, and very much a real, living woman struggling against a larger figure clad in a dark hood and cloak that sought to drag her into the woods. There was a faint scream that seemed to pull at Strell's blood, at his sinews; it tugged on each of his hairs, it seemed, until the back of his neck prickled as they stood upright.

The rogue's mouth felt dry as he pulled frantically at the window pane, his short nails scratching against the painted wood fruitlessly. He glanced up for a split second and saw the dark figure strike the woman, her head wrenching to one side from the force.

The young elf shouted as the ominous figure began to drag her limp form into the darkened wood, wordless shock and grief and fear coming out in a bellow as he bounded across the room and desperately tried the door; when it proved unyielding, he whirled until he found another way out.

Strell threw on his cape and slid a dagger into the waistband of his underclothes and then heaved up the hefty chest his aunt had proudly given to him after his first formal party. It was made of dense ironwood, from a tree that probably predated this house, and every inch of it was carved with swirled dragonhawks and twisted, gnarled braches dotted with delicate blossoms.

It soared through the windowpane with ease, shattering the glass and splintering the wood like an ogre's first might. Strell paused, stunned for a moment- he knew not from where such strength had come.

The rogue scurried out the window with the speed of an ambushed lynx, nicking himself on shards of cracked glass that jutted from the sill in his hurry. He half-climbed, half-fell to the ground, groaning as he landed on the sharp shards that littered grass and briefly bemoaning his hasty decision to forgo boots.

But he pushed himself up quickly, ignoring the jolts of pain that ricocheted up his spine with each step as he sprinted to the last place that he had seen the wailing woman and her assaulter. They were gone, but the damp grass was bent and broken where she had fallen, and crushed flat and streaked with mud in the direction that they had left.

Strell shook off the rain that trickled over his eyes and mouth and struggled to follow the trail as it led deeper and deeper into the woods, his fragmented thoughts always returning to the screaming woman in white; thin branches and saplings lashed at his bare body, steady rain made his footing less sure, and the cloud-darkened sky left him groping almost blindly, now frightened of the shadows that had always proven to be a safe haven before.

He stumbled into a small clearing, at last blessedly free of finger-like twigs pulling at his cloak. He drew in a shaky breath and pulled out his dagger, though now it seemed little more than an empty comfort, a child's toy clutched to ward off frightening thoughts. His cloak clung to him like a wet skin, heavy with rain, more burdensome than anything else.

_I should have stopped to look for the oiled one_, he thought briefly, for all the good it did him. He shivered under the sodden fabric. _My urgency was my undoing_, was his second thought, and it filled him with a despair that chilled him more than the cool nighttime rain.

The soaked rogue whirled about as he heard a branch snap within the woods, the muddled noise lost in the sound of rain and rolling thunder before he could place it.

A creeping fear slid up Strell's spine, paralyzing his limbs and rooting him in place. It was visceral, the fear as much in his body as it was in his mind. He _felt_ the sensation of eyes upon him, as tangible as a hand ghosting over his skin, as unnerving as breath sighing against his neck.

It was a predator's stare, full of murderous intent. And he was _prey_, like the woman had been prey, lured out onto the killing grounds like a sheltered fawn drawn from its den.

At last Strell felt the feeling slide back into his limbs. He sucked in a breath and darted for the inky shadow cast by a towering palebark, crouching low as he manipulated the darkness just enough to conceal himself. Any thoughts of finding the woman lost in his fear. His long ears seemed to always catch just the slightest sound of whatever stalked the woods around him- the muted crack of a branch, the slick crunch of wet leaves, the soft thump of something dragging. Was that laughter or just some trick of the woods?

He pressed his palms over his ears and huddled against the tree trunk. And there he hid, shaking under the cold onslaught of rain and biting his lip to stifle his panicked breaths. Strell didn't notice how long he had sat like that until the rain relented and the sky cleared and the first rays of dawn crested the hills to the east.

The rogue clung to the shadows at first as he staggered home, fear of the dark-clad man still thick in his veins, but as the trees thinned and the house grew close, he broke into a shambling run. The vast house atop the hill had never seemed so inviting.

He cared not that tears now streaked his cheeks, or that he was a shaking mess, or that he was nearly naked underneath his sodden cloak. He ran blindly into the arms of the first body he saw, which he belatedly realized was Kinzal.

It wasn't until the troll wrapped his long arms around him that Strell realized the warrior was the one he had wanted the most. His slow heartbeat calmed the elf, as did his scent- salty and musky, damp with raindrops, the smell of his many copper bracelets and armbands mixing with his sweat-slicked skin. The rogue pressed closer, at the moment unashamed of his desperation. In Kinzal's arms was safety; in his arms was _warmth_.

Loktak lumbered over to sniff at the shaking elf, his pebbly scaled nose pressing against his shoulder, his breath comfortingly warm as the troll unclasped his soggy cloak and pulled off his own thick-spun cotton shirt to wrap around the much smaller elf.

Kinzal's voice was laced with urgent concern as he spoke of how the first servants to wake had raised the alarm at the sight of the trunk and smashed glass in the back yard, and how he had ridden to the nearest tavern to check for him on his parents' orders.

"But… ya boots were all dere, an' ya oiled cloak, an' ya'd left ya showy daggers behind," he said as he wiped back the dark hair plastered to his forehead. He made to help the elf back to the house. But Strell planted his feet and shook his head. He didn't want his family, or the gawking servants. He wanted Kinzal. The troll seemed to understand, and he pulled the elf close as he continued. "Loktak couldn' catch ya scent with all da rain. Else I'd have found ya," he murmured. "What… what happened?"

Strell hesitated for half a breath, and then the words tumbled forth in a maddened haste. He stuttered through his tale, his sentences occasionally punctuated by deep breaths and wracking sobs, his words more often than not muffled against the broad expanse of Kinza's chest. When he finished, he wrapped his shaky arms around the troll and hoped he was strong enough to keep him from leaving.

Kinzal was quiet. "Ya freezin'," he whispered at last, carefully prying the elf's arms away. At the rogue's cry of protest, he ran his thumb over the trembling, bloodless lips and whispered softly in Zandali. "Don' worry, Strell," he muttered as he scooped the elf into his arms, careful not to brush against his bloodied hands and feet. "I'm righ' here."

_Right here_. Strell slipped into a painfully dark sleep to those words.

* * *

He woke up alone, and that realization by itself was enough to make him whimper plaintively.

Though he chided himself for having held such foolish expectations of having someone sitting at his side, he could not deny his disappointment. His father, maybe. Even his brother would have been a comfort.

Kinzal had been the one he would have appreciated the most. He pulled a pillow over his face and muffled his angered cry. He wanted the warrior. Half of him resented the troll for not being with him, and the other half despaired to think that perhaps he'd been dismissed for allowing him to escape again.

If Kinzal _had_ been released from his duty, Strell vowed to make his parents' lives as difficult as possible. He'd push his bed out of the window, if need be. He'd toast to his wellborn family in the brothels and taverns, he'd fuck whores in the middle of the Bazaar in broad daylight, he'd sing at the top of his lungs about all of the secrets never mentioned in polite company- Ser Brightblade had three bastards by a tavern wench, Lady Givana's young son had a nasty habit of skinning his pets, the servants in the Windglade household regularly heard the lord and lady entertaining half a dozen young men in their bedroom. And there were his own family's secrets, much more well-guarded…

He let his anger at the other members of the household simmer quietly, for if he kept his mind occupied with counting the ways they had disappointed him and the ways he could strike back, he could not dwell on memories of the dark forest or his growing anxiety over the next nightfall.

At last, a servant began to climb the stairs. He could tell by the clomping of her shoes.

"Oh, Master Dayborne," she said with faint surprise as she popped her head in, one arm piled high with folded towels embroidered with their crest. "You are finally up, it seems. Let me inform your lady mother." She gave him a look just before she turned to clomp back down the stairs, one that Strell was more familiar with than he let on- guarded disdain.

For a few moments, he curled on his side and longed for the stuffed dragonhawk that he had slept with as a child. He couldn't remember ever having named the thing, but it had kept him good company for many years, right up until his governess had thrown it out.

"Ser Dayborne?" a deep, familiar voice said from the door, sounding surprisingly tentative.

"Please come in," Strell said immediately, a smile flitting across his lips. He hadn't been let go, and he had come to see him. It didn't matter that Kinzal had let him wake alone, that he hadn't been _right there_ as he slept; Kinzal was here _now_, and Strell needed him to be. "Sit. Sit wherever," he said eagerly.

Green eyes followed the troll as he crossed the room. The elf curled his toes as he drew close, the movement eliciting a dull sting from his lacerated feet, and then relaxed them in disappointment as the warrior crouched beside his bed. Strell frowned, realizing that he'd wanted nothing more than for Kinzal to sit beside him, to pull back the covers and lie with him, to hold him close again and assure him that all would be well.

"How ya doin'?" Kinzal asked somberly, clasping his hands together as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"I have been better," the rogue said with a brief smile. He shifted closer to the edge of his bed, wriggling under sweat-dampened sheets and his heavy blanket.

The troll's eyes shut and he sighed. "Ya madda sent me ta tell ya ta come downstairs," he said after a moment, his nose wrinkling into a sneer. "She said ta let ya walk, but I can carry ya easy-"

"No," the elf said, shaking his head as he sat up. He threw off his covers and set his bandaged feet flat against the floor, anger propelling him to his feet and dulling the pain from his fresh wounds. Belatedly, he realized he was still clad in next to nothing.

He offered the troll an apologetic look, and thanked him as he wordlessly pulled a pair of pants and a loose-fitting shirt from the armoire.

Strell needed to occasionally grab hold of Kinzal for balance as he struggled into his clothing. The warrior silently obliged him, even helping to support him as he slowly began to descend the staircase. Each time his foot landed wrong and he cried out, the troll would pointedly glance away, and when Strell needed to pause and catch his breath, Kinzal would comment on the servants' gossip or other news.

The elf wasn't certain he would be able to express his gratitude for these little accommodations to his injured pride.

"I went an' got da bowls poured," the troll said during one pause by the entry hall. Leave it to his mother to request his presence on the other side of the massive house when his feet were in ribbons…

"Oh? How was that?" Strell asked animatedly. Keeping his mind on the conversation kept it off the pain, or so he told himself.

"Good, good. Got 'em outta da sand an' everyting, but now dey'll need ta have all da excess metal ground off. I can probably get it done by tomorrow, an' den dey'll be ready ta keep."

"I can't wait to see," the elf said honestly as he limped to the door of his mother's den.

"Easy now," Kinzal whispered as he helped him just to the door. "I'll be here," he assured the elf, who turned with a shaky breath and pushed open the door. It was heavy, darkly wooded, and marked the end of the common areas of the house and the beginning of _her_ domain.

He entered the study, noting that it wanted light desperately- even as a rogue, he found his mother's tastes to be dark, dark, dark. Dark paneling on the walls, dark maroon carpeting, dark drapes to block the sunlight. The stuffy room was lit by a handful of enchanted candles, but it still felt ominously dim.

Strell closed the door quickly behind him. The last thing he wanted them to see was that he had gotten help to walk here, and that Kinzal was gentle enough to give it.

"Mother," he said stiffly, keeping his eyes trained on the thin, auburn-haired woman standing behind the broad desk as he slowly crossed the room. She watched him as he watched her, her almond-shaped eyes impassive.

Torril was up from his chair in the corner at once, eager to take his smaller brother by the elbow and help him walk; Strell shook off the touch and continued by himself, reaching the chair clearly intended for him.

"I'm glad to see you've finally roused yourself," she sighed. She pursed her brightly painted lips as he made no move to sit. "Very well. Stand if you like. Strell, your father and I have been discussing what do with you in light of your most recent indiscretion-"

"Indiscretion?" the young elf interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "_Indiscretion_?" he asked again, this time looking to his father for answer.

"While I would argue your mother's choice of wording," Lyrent said with a warning glare at the woman, "I cannot disagree that you _did_ act recklessly," he said as he turned back to his son. His long face was paler than normal and the poor lighting did the lines at his mouth and eyes no favors. "Your injuries speak for themselves-"

"My injuries?" Strell asked, baffled. "And my recklessness? These are your concerns? What about the woman that was beaten and likely _killed_ on our property? And the one responsible for it?"

"As if something so scandalous could happen here," his mother said with a scoff. "Your years of bloodthistle indulgence have caught up to you, Strell," she said, her tone severe as the tight bun her hair was worn in.

"I didn't- it wasn't some hallucination," he cried, grabbing her desk and leaning across it. "I saw it happen."

"Saw _what_, exactly, Strell?" she asked, clacking her long nails against the lacquered wood of her desk. "You saw vague shapes in the middle of the night, during heavy rain, from forty yards away," his mother said with increasing condescension.

"Not vague," he argued, now with less conviction. "I heard a scream, too."

"Strell," his father said gently. "It is _possible_ that you may have leapt to conclusions. These are… highly unlikely circumstances," he said with a sad look. "A shadowy man attacking someone on in our garden… it does sound as though it belongs in a nightmare."

"I wasn't _dreaming_," Strell said with a sneer, ignoring the prickling of tears in his eyes. "And I wasn't seeing things," he spat, shooting a glance at his mother. He had expected some measure of hostility from them, if only for being the one to bear them ill news- a bit of low class crime on their doorstep. But he hadn't anticipated outright denial.

"Not dreams, necessarily," Lyrent continued, trying to placate him. "Night terrors, things that feel so real that it is easy to become confused-"

"And we just ignore his years of huffing away on hookahs in those bloodthistle dens?" his mother interrupted. She faced her son with an air of disgust. "And the nights spent drowned in lotus concoctions? Knocked into a stupor by cheap liquor? Your mind is clearly addled." She put her hands on her hips and stared down at her desk. "It is times like these when I wonder if you would be better served at the sanitarium."

Strell's breath caught in his chest.

"Yvine," his father said lowly, "stop."

"You would ship me off to be rid of me," the young elf said bitterly. He glared daggers at the woman, hating her all the more as her heart-shaped face remained a cool mask. "Send me to wither away with the borderline wretched, is that it?"

"We would never put you in the sanitarium," Lyrent said sternly, shooting a dark glance at his wife, who glowered back.

"Then why do you both sit here and debate my grasp on reality rather than pursue the villain stalking our grounds after dark?" he asked exasperatedly, already beginning to feel a sharp ache in his chest, accompanied by a lethargy that was making it harder and harder to keep upright.

Torril rose from his chair in the corner and stood stiffly, silent as he waited for someone to grant him permission to speak. His pose was impassive and rigid underneath his plate, but his eyes darted concernedly from Strell to their mother. At a nod from Yvine, he said, "Mother, perhaps we should send a messenger to Captain Niandra-"

"We will do no such thing!" she said at once, appearing just a step short of actually stamping her foot. "And your misguided adoration of that woman is unseemly, Torril."

"But I-" the young paladin said apologetically, his face reddening within seconds.

"She is not the paragon you and your father believe her to be," Yvine said icily. "What an unscrupulous woman. There is a reason she is still unmarried after all these years. And no, we will not involve the city guard in some morbid delusion of our thistle-addled son."

Strell quailed under the penetrating glare that was leveled at him, and from the corner of his eye he could see Torril sit back down. He would not speak up again.

"This… disgrace will be kept as yet _another_ family secret," she said, casting a glare at Strell, whose lip curled in response. "The servants do not know. They will not know. The gossip… if such a thing got out." She put her hand on her forehead and sighed.

"To that end," his father added, nodding, "we have asked Kindal-"

"Kinzal," Strell corrected, his stare icy.

"Yes." Lyrent frowned, appearing taken aback at his son's hostility. "Kinzal. We have asked him to remain respectfully quiet about this matter as well. It is... better if we forget this all," he said tiredly.

"Forget it?" the rouge asked, his brow furrowed. He thought of the scream in the dark, the woman beaten and dragged away, his helplessness in the woods. "I couldn't forget if I tried," he whispered.

His mother's look held no compassion. "Then you must simply bite your tongue."

* * *

Kinzal helped him limp back up to his room, the place that was by turns his prison and his sanctuary.

"She told me before I left," he muttered, "that they would send you away if you didn't keep your mouth shut."

"Aye, dat dey did," Kinzal replied as he gingerly took Strell's foot and placed it on his lap.

"So no one will ever speak of it," the elf said despondently, biting his trembling lip with enough force to turn it bloodless white.

"You can talk ta me abou' it," the troll whispered as he slowly unwound the bloodied bandages.

"Do you… do you also think I imagined it?" Strell asked weakly, his eyes searching the warrior's face desperately.

Eyes the color of dark honey looked up from his crimson-streaked soles. "No. I believe dat ya saw sometin' ya weren' supposed ta, some real evil."

Hearing it aloud, Strell grew doubtful of his desire to be believed. There was a certain comfort in a lie, especially one that would trade his witness of a dark and violent act for a simple delusion. "They ask me to forget."

"Dere always be people dat wanna pretend dat lookin' away from monsters makes 'em vanish. Dat ignorin' it will stop it bein' real," the troll told him quietly as he sponged at the blood seeping from his cuts.

Strell laid back, quiet and grateful as Kinzal finished wrapping his feet in clean bandages.

Kinzal sighed heavily. "Don' listen ta dem," he said, gently taking hold of the elf's chin and finding his gaze. "I'll be here, but… keep ya wits abou' ya."

"Should I be worried?"

"Ya saw a monster, Ser Dayborne," the troll replied, his frown heavy on his lips. "An' it saw _you_."

Strell shivered.

Kinzal cocked his head and grew silent. "I tink I hear ya fadda comin'."

The rogue frowned stiffly and glanced away, out the window that had been hastily replaced. The sky was blue now, not a muddied black-grey, but he shuddered and opted to look up at the ceiling instead.

"Strell," his father said as he peeked in, a tray with tea and a stack of squat little cookies in his hands, "I- oh, Kinzal. I did not expect… well, it is better that you are both here," he said with a tight smile. He crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table.

"Kinzal changed my bandages for me," Strell announced, half wanting to have the troll's good care recognized and half wanting to sting his father.

Lyrent's eyebrows drew together for a moment as he saw the discarded bandages, blotted with dark crimson, and the young elf's sore-looking feet propped up on a pillow. "Yes… very good of you, Kinzal. Thank you."

"I suppose it wouldn't do to have the servants coming in to tend to me. They might take pity, ask questions," Strell stated. "What did you tell them, exactly? Do they also think that I am mad, delusional? Or did you simply say that in my eagerness to flagrantly defy all rules I broke through my own window and then leapt upon glass just to spite you?"

His father didn't say anything at all, and that was answer enough for Strell.

"You can go," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm afraid I must… adjust some living arrangements first," his father said, folding his hands behind his back. "It pains me to know that such measures must be taken simply to keep you from disappearing into the night, but we do what we must. You are… not stable enough to be alone, Strell. Kinzal, if you would please move your things into this room, we can have a cot and linens brought up before dinner-"

"Ser Dayborne," the troll interrupted, sitting up, "I mus' respectfully ask dat I have _some_ privacy here," he said uncomfortably. "Ta share a room…"

Strell started at Kinzal's words, glancing up at him with unconcealed hurt. Unbidden, the same feelings of distrust that had prickled at him upon waking up alone returned.

"Oh, well," the older elf said to himself. "I understand that it is unorthodox," he said sympathetically, "but I can see no way around it, I'm afraid. He is just too troubled," he added in a hushed tone, casting his son a sad, concerned glance. "I will have Tyronus bring your things, on second thought. It is best if he is constantly attended to."

Without giving the warrior another chance to object, Lyrent left the room and took the stairs at a brisk pace.

Kinzal grunted once his employer was gone, looking severely displeased by his new living assignment.

"That bothered by being forced to room with me?" Strell asked with a glower, feeling betrayed.

"Hush." The troll didn't spare him a glance, his brow furrowed as he studied the wall opposite him.

Strell could not quiet the hurt that now blossomed painfully in his chest. He had taken to the idea of sharing a room with the troll with a frantic zeal. And why shouldn't he? He was comforted only by the thought of the warrior so close. Some part of him had thought it obvious that his keeper should be with him always now. Yet Kinzal objected strongly enough to plead with his father over it…

"I told you I'd go mad," he said with a short, hollow laugh after a few minutes had elapsed, "if you kept me locked in this room. And here I have. I suppose I cannot fault you for wanting your distance from me."

"Ya not crazy," Kinzal said harshly. When he saw the elf flinch, his expression softened. "Listen, I ain' upset at bein' in dis room because of _you_. It just… don' worry bout it. But da good ting bout dis is dat I'mma be right here."

"Right here?" Strell smiled to himself- and deeper inside, guilt settled in him like a heavy stone. He was more desperate than ever to take flight from this place, and… that would include leaving the troll behind.

Kinzal nodded and offered him a warm smile. When Tyronus came with a large knapsack filled with the troll's clothes and possessions, accompanied by three other servants to carry his armor and a cot, the warrior was quiet but polite, nodding at where to set down his things.

Strell watched as he rearranged his plate and propped his swords up in a corner; he laid blankets over his cot and kneaded his pillow, and then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The elf's gaze drifted over to the cot placed adjacent to the wall. When Kinzal emerged, his face slightly red from scrubbing and his heavy leathers and mail exchanged for cotton and a well-worn leather vest, he asked, "Could you… do you think you could sleep closer? Just for tonight. And any time it rains," he added with a raspy laugh. "I fear to be alone," he admitted to the troll.

"Yeah, no problem," Kinzal replied, his voice tight. He dragged the cot closer, until it was side-by-side with Strell's own bed. "Ya get ya rest now, Ser Dayborne. I'll be here," he promised.

And the rogue, exhausted already by his short day's events, was tired enough to let the words lull him to sleep.

* * *

The next few days passed in a haze for the rogue. He was mostly confined to the bed- a sentence that would have been torture under any other circumstances but was made significantly more bearable by Kinzal's presence and a small vial of a powerful sleeping drought.

When he was not in the aimless, dreamless slumber induced by the potion, he was kept company by the colossal troll, who alternated between reading to him and telling him tamer stories from his service in Outland. When he could, Kinzal gave him small tasks to keep his hands and mind occupied- homemade puzzles created with bits of rope, new lockboxes to pick open, cloth to fashion into more bandages.

The servants gave him a wide berth, only coming into his room to gather the dishes and dirty laundry. Strell preferred it that way- from Kinzal's understanding of the kitchen chatter and the elf's own observation of the way the household's workers looked at him, the general consensus was that he had had a fit of madness and had leapt from his room during a flight of fantasy. A few of the bolder, more vocal servants would voice their opinion that it was all nothing more than a spoiled noble's haste to visit some orgy out in the wilds.

Either way, Strell felt in no mood to suffer their looks of pity and superiority. He did not wish to suffer them at _all_. Life outside of his room had gone on as regular, not a hiccup in the daily goings on of the household, as if the night in the rain hadn't happened at all.

It disgusted Strell as much as it comforted him. In the quiet hours when fear crept back in, he could assure himself that it _had_ all been in his head, or at least exaggerated; how else could so many people simply continue about their lives so peacefully? At times when he felt stronger, he sneered at their willingness to turn away from unpleasant truths and act the part of placid beasts. They were as sheep that had munched on too much bloodthistle, willfully ignoring the wolf that crept along behind the flock simply because the shepherd did.

Kinzal had made a few inquiries when he ventured down into the kitchens and laundry, he told the elf. But mostly he just listened, as playing the part of investigating guardsman would curry him no favor with the lord and lady of the house.

A washing girl had gone missing. She had only arrived a couple of weeks before Kinzal did. The gossip of the other servants was not kind to the girl; she had been boisterously loud, prouder than a girl of her station should be, and quick to boast of how she would soon leave this lot for better prospects. Her quick departure- her few possessions and clothing all left in the servants' quarters- had raised eyebrows, but nothing more was made of it.

"It was her," Strell had croaked the morning that his keeper had reported this gleaned information to him. He had picked feebly at the bun that Kinzal had already torn in pieces for him and ignored the jam entirely. "I'd stake my life on it. It was her that I saw."

But Kinzal had said nothing then, those deep set eyes falling from him to the floor, a sigh that spoke of being between a rock and a hard place escaping him.

Days later, when his wounds had sealed up and he could stand without pain, Strell insisted on some sort of exercise to return the feeling to his disused limbs.

He'd asked to spar. Kinzal had objected emphatically each time he asked, but after a dozen pleas, each more desperate than the last, the troll had finally caved.

A large room in the west wing had been fashioned into a training room, equipped with blunted weapons and padded vests and practice dummies. Though he hadn't explicitly told Kinzal his reasons for asking for this as a diversion, he got the impression that the warrior understood.

His month of confinement had meant no visiting his preferred trainer in Murder Row. A month with no rigorous practice or instruction had made him far less fluid with a weapon than he liked, not that he had been particularly skilled in the first place.

"I don' know daggers," Kinzal said plainly, eyeing the small blade in the elf's hand warily. "Gimme a sword, gimme an axe, gimme a shield. But a dagger…"

"They're not so different. It's like a little sword, isn't it?" the rogue asked. He held up the small blade as though he was parrying a sword strike.

"Maybe ta _dem_ little hands," the troll mused. He held up one of the rogue's daggers in his own three-fingered hand, the little blade swimming amidst all the blue. "I can teach ya how ta use it like a toothpick, maybe," he said with a little shrug.

"A _toothpick_?" Strell asked with a hint of a grin. "Maybe to _those_ big teeth," he said, nodding to the troll's heavy looking tusks.

Kinzal laughed, low and raspy, as he took up a dull-edged sword.

"You don't have to _teach_ me anything," the elf said as he picked a pair of practice daggers and smeared rouge along the smoothed edges. "Just give me something to learn from."

"Experience be da greatest teacher," the warrior agreed, a smile ready at his lips as he raised the two-handed sword. "Ya ever had ta fight someone wit' a sword?"

Strell shook his head, looking slightly abashed. "No… no fights. A couple of drunken brawls," he said with a shrug, "but nothing more than sparring."

Kinzal grunted and swept a hand over his hair, smoothing the fanned mohawk down only to have it promptly spring back up immediately after. He lowered his sword, tapping the flat of the blade against the side of his foot for a moment. "Well, I'll start off slow. Get a feel for how a swordsman moves, den try an' hit me. Dodge my swings, don' try ta parry 'em."

"But… the clash of steel on steel," the rogue muttered disappointedly, a pout taking his lips.

"Da clash of _dis_ steel on _dat_ steel," the troll said as he deftly tapped the tip of his long blade against one of Strell's daggers, "would _ruin_ ya weapon. Ya don' want edge-on-edge parries, if ya can help it. It does no favors ta da blade," he said gruffly.

"That's not how they fight in the plays and shows." The elf's mouth quirked to the side.

"No," the warrior said with a soft chuckle. "It ain'. Ya got a short reach, little elf," he continued, "so play it close. Dance away and I get da advantage."

"I'm not little," Strell muttered as he flexed his grip on the daggers. "The first trainer I found told me I was too _big_ to be a rogue." It seemed silly, saying such a thing next to the troll that easily stood seven and a half feet, but the best rogues were usually lithe little things, small even for elves, and Strell was _not_ small for an elf. He shared much the same build as his paladin brother, though he was not as muscled from years of burdensome plate.

Kinzal surveyed him anew, dark eyes roving him up and down. "Ya be broad in da shoulder," he agreed. "But ya all look small ta me," he added with a quick grin. "Found yaself a trainer anyway though, eh?"

The rogue nodded. "He's no great assassin or bandit, but he knows his way around the shadows. And pockets." He waggled his brows at the troll. "I cannot say for certain that I could disarm a foe in combat… but give me a moment to distract him beforehand and I could have him weaponless before the fight even started," he boasted.

"I've broken da fingers of pickpockets _half_ as cocky," the troll laughed. He hefted the broad-bladed sword up and slowly circled around his ward. "Now, let's see ya best try."

"Oh," a gentle voice said in surprise, drawing both of their attentions to the door. "Hello."

A fair-haired elf in loose silks stood in the hall just beyond, hovering.

Strell really didn't know _how_ Kinzal could ever have mistaken him for his brother- aside from the obvious difference of their hair, Torril was a classically handsome sort, with a strong chin and chiseled features that made lowborn girls giggle and sigh whenever they went to market. His nose was a little bent, true, but finding a warrior or paladin that still had an unbroken nose was easier than finding a maiden whore- plate was a capricious thing to train in, as like to smash in a face as any mace or club.

"Torril," Strell said in greeting, nodding his head slightly. He was also still miffed that his older brother had so blatantly cut his hair in imitation of him.

Kinzal gave the paladin a short wave in acknowledgement, his sword once again forgotten at his side.

"I didn't know you two were in here today," the blond elf said meekly, a smile just touching his lips. He gripped the doorframe as he edged close and peered around it, as if anchoring himself to the wall.

"Well, we are," Strell said plainly. "You'd better go to the east wing, or outside. Mother would have a fit if she knew you ran into us."

Torril's smile abated and he stared at the floor as he nodded. "Yes, Strell. I just… I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. After…"

"I'm fine," the dark-haired elf said brusquely, huffing as he turned on a practice dummy and began marking it in red.

"I am glad to hear of it," his brother continued, his gentle eyes still on Strell's back. "I went to the tower of the light to meditate. The…" He looked miserable, clearly torn between what he wanted to say and his desire to obey their parents. "The… injustice that you saw-"

"Torril," the rogue said sharply, facing him once again.

The young paladin swallowed his words, chastened by the reminder of his promise. "Yes. Yes, brother. And I wanted to apologize again," he added quickly, glancing up briefly at Kinzal, "for hitting you before. I should never have raised my hammer against you."

"Nah, s'fine. I deserved it," the troll said easily. He shrugged. "No hard feelings, mon."

The paladin bit his lip and nodded. "I think-"

"Torril, I can practically hear mother's veins popping out of her forehead already," Strell interrupted impatiently. "'A young lord's place is not with guttertrash and sellswords.' Now, I have no doubt that there is some kitten up a tree that requires your aid _somewhere_, and that somewhere is not here. Have a good afternoon, brother."

Torril shut his mouth and nodded, his gaze falling to the floor as he retreated from the doorway and turned down the hall.

"Ya didn' have ta be so short wit him, did ya?" Kinzal asked once the paladin's footsteps had trailed off. He swung his dulled blade lazily at one of the dummies, catching it in its burlap neck.

"It's for his own good, and ours," the rogue said defensively. "He's too soft. He positively hates getting a dressing down from Mother, and anything she does to him she'll give to us twofold. He knows better than to come looking for us," he muttered.

"He's just a kid," the troll said quietly.

"No, he's _not_ 'just a kid'," Strell said with a sigh. "He's heir to the household. He's a paladin in the making. He's the future husband of Lady Dawnblossom. And he shouldn't be trying to associate with his delinquent little brother or the troll warrior he's infatuated with. Goodness, imagine the scandal."

"Infatuated?" Kinzal asked skeptically. "_Now_ I tink ya be crazy."

Strell scoffed. "Are you kidding? The blushing, the fidgeting, peering around the corner at you and biting his lip," the elf said with a roll of his eyes. "I've only seen him look like that at the guard captain, whom he is utterly enchanted by. Stay away from him," he added as a warning.

"Ya don' need ta tell me dat!" the troll bit back. He muttered something in Zandali. "Damn crazy elves. What do I do?"

"Just ignore him," Strell said dismissively. "He'll pine quietly, maybe have a few wet dreams about the big troll with the rippling muscles and then he'll get over it when he has to start courting his wife. Or he won't. It doesn't matter, really- Torril's not one to act on anything he feels."

Noticing the hard, studying look Kinzal was giving him, the rogue continued.

"He's the sort that will take the life given to him- as wrong and ill-fitting as it is- and conform himself to it. It's that sense of honor in him, that eagerness to please. He's _sincere_, which only makes him that much more infuriating," he sighed. "So he'll do it. He'll keep up appearances. He will be the respected lord of a large estate, part of a proud order and with a wellborn wife of good reputation, and no one will ever know what he really wishes for and dreams of because no one will ever ask him."

"An' if dey did ask him… he'd never tell," the troll said quietly.

"You pick up quick," Strell said with a slow, approving grin. "No, he could never bring himself to do anything that would disappoint them. Or say anything," he added, thinking of a million times his brother had balked and backed down.

"Ya'd never do dat," Kinzal continued, his brow furrowed. "Ya'd never let dat happen ta _you_."

"No," the elf answered, shaking his head the barest bit. They were not cut of the same cloth, he and his brother. "I didn't."

He lashed out with the dagger, the pigment coated blade leaving a red streak across the throat of the dummy.

* * *

"All out of the sleeping drought," Strell sighed. "_This_ is going to be a fun night." He frowned glumly at the empty brown bottle. He had taken a little bit more than prescribed once or twice, but it seemed it should have lasted longer.

Kinzal's smile was tight. His gaze lingered on the empty bottle as well. "Ya could probably ask dem for more."

The elf laughed roughly at that. "Ask my mother, who is already convinced I'm an addict whose mind is addled from magics and drugs? No. No, father went through seven hells to stop her shrieking over me getting this _one_ little vial. Only natural sleep from here on out," he said grimly.

"Could we not… buy more?" the warrior said in gruff tones, his brow lifted questioningly.

Strell's mouth parted in a wide smile. "Kinzal, I daresay I have had an effect on you," he laughed, thumping the troll on the shoulder proudly. "You would defy them and buy me black market potions?"

"Black market? For dat?" the warrior asked incredulously. "Just a sleepin' potion," he said stiffly.

"A very strong one," the elf sighed. "Stronger than what they use in the dens, even. Medicinal value, yes, but also a plague to the public. Hundreds died from it- the 'sweetest sleep', it was called. After seeing your family and friends devoured by hordes of the dead, being carried into eternity in a dreamless sleep was an opportunity many could not pass up. So they put all sorts of bans on it after that. You can still get it illegally, of course. You can get _anything_. It's just very expensive," he murmured, turning the empty glass in hand.

"How expensive?"

Strell eyed him curiously. "Perhaps… a hundred and twenty gold per bottle? There are cheaper ways to die now, certainly, but nowhere near as kind."

The troll grunted and looked back toward his knapsack.

"Kinzal, you needn't worry about that," the rogue said gently, wanting nothing more than to hold the troll and be held in turn. He wrapped his arms around himself instead. "I am not so desperate for it. I wouldn't have you risk it, or waste the gold. One cannot live their whole life on the stuff. Better to face the nightmares sooner and get it over with," he said, half hoping to convince himself.

"Ya… ya have da right of it," the warrior said at last, offering the elf a bleak smile.

Strell smiled back, though he was troubled by the nervousness in the troll. "So long as you are by my side, I will be fine," he said softly.

He had taken to wearing clothes to bed for Kinzal's sake. The troll had been so uncomfortable about sharing a room in the beginning that the last thing he wanted to do was give him any more reason to leave.

Strell shuddered softly under the covers as they settled in for sleep. He could not face the window anymore, so he had taken to lying on his right side, and now he faced his keeper as he slept.

Yellowish eyes stared back at him through the dark and faint moonlight glinted off of tusks. It was like sleeping with a panther beside him, guarding against the dark. He rather liked the feeling.

Strell pulled the blankets higher around his neck, needing all the security that they could provide. Sleep was slow to come without the potion, but the comforting sound of Kinzal's steady breaths put him more at ease and his tiredness eventually won out.

His dreams were washed out shades of grey punctuated with bright color. The sky swirled with whorls of bleak clouds, tumultuous as they spun and turned and struck up thunder. It was the white woman at the edge of the forest, but now _all_ was white- a thin sheet of snow bleached the earth, and the wood was dead and cold. When the dark-clad man hit her, bright red blood sprayed across the snow.

Strell felt his body move against his will, mechanically following the trail of blood and disheveled snow despite his screams to stop. When he reached the clearing, the woman laid in a pool of blood and snowmelt at its center.

His mother and the dark man were laughing at the other edge of the clearing, sharing wine- or was it blood?- and soft words. And hunched over the mangled woman in white was Kinzal, but drawn pale and gaunt. His tusks and mouth were bloody, and when he glanced up from feeding on her wetly glistening entrails, Strell saw that his eyes were a crystalline blue.

He jolted upright just as a violent shiver wracked through him, making his limbs tighten and stiffen painfully. His hair was plastered to his neck and forehead, clinging like fingers. For a moment it all seemed like a reality- until he reminded himself that Eversong receives no snow, and Kinzal's eyes are amber and his skin still blue, and his mother would never deign to sip wine with some lowbrow murderer.

The elf exhaled heavily and swept the sweat-damp locks away from his skin before feeling his pillow, which was also moist to the touch. _Didn't wet the bed at least_, he thought dismally as he made to push the blankets aside. His clothes stuck to him uncomfortably, and he thought he might bathe and then change.

A muffled noise from beside him made the rogue go still. His was not the only nightmare this night, it seemed.

He huddled on his bed as he watched Kinzal tense and twitch under his layer of blankets, anguish twisting his features. Twice he cried out, sounding as frightened as Strell had felt that night in the wood, and twice the elf made to comfort him but changed his mind, wary of the troll waking to find him having spied on him as he slept.

Only when the warrior made a strangled noise followed by softly whispered pleas did Strell act. It was too much, too much to hear Kinzal begging like that. Something in his nightmare was killing him.

He hunched beside the shaking troll's cot and placed his hand on the bare skin of his shoulder. He felt cold, despite all the blankets, and unresponsive besides. He shivered with every breath.

"Kinzal," the elf muttered worriedly. He shook his shoulder, but the warrior only cried out louder. "Kinzal! Kinzal, please wake-"

The blow was sharp enough to send him sprawling backward. Strell had tasted blood even as he reeled. He slowly drew his fingertips to his lips and found them sticky wet when he pulled them away. He glanced back up, stunned, and found dimly glinting eyes holding him with just as much shock.

"You hit me," the elf said, the words feeling flat on his tongue as they mixed with the coppery taste. He tenderly touched the corner of his mouth again and stared down at the dark stain on his fingers in wonder.

"St-Ser Darborne," the warrior said quickly, panic clear in his tone. "'M sorry, so sorry. I- I- I didn'- I didn' know ya were-"

"It's okay," the rogue told him. He licked his lips. "I'm okay. I shouldn't have tried to wake you," he mumbled as he sat up. "If anyone asks, I'll just say I tripped and my mouth bore the brunt of the fall. Not that anyone will ask," he added under his breath.

"I'm sorry," Kinzal said in a whisper as he rose from his bed. He clumsily grabbed a roll of cotton bandages from his pack and knelt where the rogue had fallen, handing them out like an offering. "'S all my fault. I… I shoulda said sometin'. I hit ya," he muttered, mortified as he saw the elf's split lip under the pale moonlight. "I can'… I can' apologize enough."

"I've had worse," Strell said, forcing a little laugh as he wadded up the cotton bandages. In truth he was more than a little frightened that the troll's sleepy backhand had been enough to send him flying. He felt lucky to not have any loose teeth. "Are you alright? You sounded… you sounded awful."

The warrior was silent then, meeting his glance with a stony look before he dropped his gaze to the carpet.

"You… you'd been taking it too," the elf murmured, his eyes sharp on the warrior's slumped form. He thought of the potion bottle, empty of the sleeping draught too soon.

"'M sorry, Ser Dayborne," the troll said heavily. "I know… I know dat theft ain'… I mean, I-"

"Why?" Strell asked quietly. "For your nightmares as well?"

"I… I din' want ya ta see," he muttered, sounding shamed. "I'll go. Was foolhardy of me ta try an' stay after he put me in here wit ya. I shoulda left, let 'em find ya someone better. Dis wouldn' have happened den," he sighed, glancing once again at the elf's swelling lip.

Strell held fast to his arm, not letting him rise or leave. "No. No, don't," he pleaded. "It was an accident, and I couldn't bear to be here without you," he said quickly. When the troll shook his head and tried to pull away, the elf felt panic rise in the back of his throat, forcing his words out. "No! Please, Kinzal, stop. I'll ask them to let you back in your old room, if that would help. I won't touch you again. You can sleep clear on the other side, far from me. It'll be fine."

"'M not da only blade ya parents can find ta hire," Kinzal sighed. "Ya don' need ta get so worked up over me."

Anger flashed through the elf, quick as lightning but with as little staying power. He reached out, his fingers tremulous, and trailed over one of the troll's engraved copper bands. "I would have no one that believed me, then," he murmured. "I… I would not bother you again, even if you sounded as though the Lich King himself had come to you in your dreams. But I need you here, with me."

Kinzal offered him a bleak smile.

"Are you plagued by these nightmares often?" he asked. "Are they always so… consuming?"

The troll nodded and rose, towering over the elf. And then he helped him to his feet. "Back in Agmar's Hammer dey'd have ta hold me down sometimes. I grabbed da captain's throat once. I almos' strangled him. He laughed abou' it come morning, but I…" He pushed his thumbs against the center of his forehead. "I'd make a little camp for myself outside da barracks afta dat."

"No wonder you were so cross about being moved in here with me," the elf said in hushed tones. He regretted having felt spited by the troll that day.

Kinzal plopped down heavily on his cot, making it creak and groan. He patted the area next to him and Strell settled down beside him, letting the troll wrap them both under the covers. "I shoulda said sometin'," he repeated forlornly.

"He wouldn't have listened," Strell assured him. He let his feet sway as they dangled an inch from the floor. "What are yours about?" he asked in a whisper.

Kinzal's expression was hard to discern in the darkness. "Differen' tings," he said after a minute of silence. "Some real, some not. I dunno which be worse."

"What was the one just now? Real?"

"Real," he answered with a shudder. "It was…"

Strell leaned closer to the troll. He laid his head against his arm, his cheek flush against the Kinzal's clammy skin. "You listened to me. I'll listen to you. And we don't have to say anything about it ever again, if you want."

Kinzal nodded. "I dreamt I was back in Zul'Drak. Dat was where I served da longest. I left not so long ago, ran back ta Agmar's Hammer. I couldn' listen anymore… terrors'd come up in da night, snatch people up. Ya'd hear 'em screamin', but by den dere was nuttin' ta do. Dey'd beg. Pray. I heard a hundred prayers ta a hundred differen' gods an' ancestors, an' ain' one of 'em ever saved someone from dat. I dreamt it happened ta me dat time, but I didn' die when I fell, jus' broke my spine. A ghoul was on me, _eatin'_ me… an' dat's when I felt ya hand," he said apologetically. "Sorry."

"I would have done the same," the elf said, pulling the blankets tighter around them. He felt cold now, as cold as Kinzal did. "Your blankets aren't very warm," he noted with displeasure.

"Nah, not really," the warrior agreed. "So… did ya dream about _it_?"

Strell exhaled as he nodded, the sound filling the dark room. "But there was snow, and-" He stopped. It didn't seem right to mention that Kinzal had been there, not in that state. "And my mother was with the man that did it."

"If a witch doctah was here," the troll said after a few minutes, "he'd be knowin' what ta make of dat. Do elves got dere own doctahs?"

The young elf chuckled as he stood and made for his own bed. "I know of a priest with a penchant for divining and deciphering dreams… but the old crone would sooner kick my rump out the door than help me. Maybe if I took Torril with," he mused.

Kinzal's gaze was steady on him as he stripped his plush comforter from the bed. It was silky soft, the crimson fabric stuffed with downy feathers. The elf grunted as he heaved the thick blanket onto the cot.

"Str- Ser Dayborne, stop. I can' take dat from ya," he insisted.

"I was sweating like a stuck pig under it," the rogue said evenly. "And shivering under those threadbare rags they gave you. The nights grow cooler. Eversong is in an eternal spring, but there is a great deal of difference between its dawn and its end. We approach the closest thing to winter that this land has," he said.

"'M just used ta da heat," the troll explained as he sheepishly took the thick blanket. "I was born on da isles. Grew on Durotar. Fought in Hellfire. Northrend left me chilled ta da bone," he sighed.

"Maybe your dreams won't turn to Northrend if you're warm," Strell said hopefully. He bedded down under his sheets and one of the thinner blankets he had traded his comforter for.

"Maybe so," Kinzal said. He smiled faintly at the elf as he buried himself under the crimson cover.

* * *

"What's that?" Strell asked in between sips of tea turned pale with cream and sugar. His room- _their _room, he corrected- was messier than ever. He'd spent the better part of ten minutes searching for his other sheepskin glove while Kinzal went to gather the post that came twice weekly.

"A letter for ya," the troll muttered as he thumbed through the stack of mail. "A few, actually. What's dis?" he muttered as he spotted one with a lipstick-coated print of a kiss on the back.

"Give me those," Strell said at once, snatching them from the troll's three-fingered grasp. He smiled to himself as he flipped through- some had names and addresses that he recognized, some did not. "Admirers," he said fondly, half to himself and half to the troll that stood by, watching him curiously.

He tore open the first and was delighted at the concern voiced in the letter. It appeared Effira had spread the news of his true plight, and with his location and situation now known, friends and acquaintances had written to offer their sympathies.

Strell glanced up at the warrior and then back to the flowing script remarking upon his dark beauty and talented tongue, and then back up to the troll. His gaze lingered on Kinzal, who had received exactly one letter in the time that he had been here, a letter that he now tore open with all the enthusiasm of a child choosing a switch for his spanking.

"What's that?" he asked, folding his own letter in his lap.

Kinzal gave him a crooked smile. "Back pay from Northrend." He glanced back down at the crumpled note to be exchanged at the bank for gold. He folded it neatly and tucked it into his knapsack. "Certainly ain' no love letter," he said with a little shrug as he sat on his cot.

Strell bit his lip, internally berating himself for being so self-absorbed as to flaunt his stack of letters before the troll. "If you got out more, I'm sure you'd have piles to pick from," he offered.

The warrior shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Thanks, mon."

"I mean it," the rogue said with a forcefulness that made the troll raise his brows. He glanced back down to his letter. "As many sin'dorei as there are that are wary of orcs and trolls, there are quite a number that are very willing to _embrace_ them."

"Dat so," the troll muttered, a statement rather than a question.

"It is," the pale elf said. "You could have your pick of any of them. Or all of them." He thought briefly of the stable girl that he'd seen Kinzal with three times now. It was not a stretch that he had set his sights on her alone. "Or is there one in particular you've already chosen?" he asked coyly.

"Yeah, mon." He leaned in close, as if to share a secret, and Strell stooped excitedly to better hear. "It be Eight-Toe Terval," he sniggered as the elf leaned close.

Strell swatted him on the shoulder with his stack of letters. "Don't kid about that. Poor fool, he always teeters a little to the left as he walks. It's a good thing his cock curves a little to the right. I bet it helps keep him balanced," he muttered as he turned and flipped through more of the letters. While most were quite uplifting to see, there was also the standard handful of disparaging ones. He wasn't surprised about that.

"Ya seem pretty knowledgeable about him," Kinzal noted, an amused smile stretching his lips around his tusks.

"It was an act of mercy," Strell said dismissively. "He lost those toes after he kept trying to nudge a hunter's sleeping worg out from under the table. Definitely not the best and brightest of the sin'dorei."

"Lucky all he lost was a few toes," Kinzal chortled. "I seen a warg take a night elf's arm off ta da shoulder once. Carried it aroun' for days afta…"

Strell's grin slowly faded as he began the slow task of reading his mail and writing out replies. It might have gone faster if he could have dictated some of the letters to Kinzal, but he was reasonably certain that the troll would want no part in the smut that was being exchanged.

"So you really have no lovers?" he asked the warrior after sealing his second reply.

"Ya sound surprised," the troll rumbled.

"I am. The Amani… well, we are no strangers to their appetites, sexual or otherwise," he said with a crooked smile. "Many elves have been carried off over the years, and the few that returned spun some rather terrifying stories. And a whore I once spoke to said that it wasn't unusual for troll patrons to go a dozen or more times in a single night. Twice that, if it was a female troll." He arched a questioning brow.

"We like ta get our gold's worth," Kinzal laughed.

Strell noted that he denied nothing and whistled lowly. "You're going to break that poor stable girl," he told the blue-skinned warrior, clucking his tongue.

The troll snorted and gave him a dubious look. "What stable girl?"

"The girl. The _girl_, the one you've been seeing every night you have off," he said knowingly. "What's her name? Talissa? No, that's not it. But I've seen you visit her in the stable."

"Tarana," Kinzal said with a little sigh. He leaned forward until his tusks nearly touched the elf's pale skin. "Ya been spyin' on me, little rogue?"

"Not spying," Strell argued, ducking away from the troll. "Just looking down from my ivory tower and seeing what's there to be seen."

Kinzal looked doubtful. "Well, I ain' doin' nuttin' ta da girl. She real sweet. She wanted ta learn ta read Orcish. I told her I'd help her."

"Oh." The rogue shifted uncomfortably. "That's… terribly kind of you."

The troll shrugged. "She takin' good care of Loktak. An' I taught one of my bruddas ta read not too long ago. Shouldn' be hard ta teach her."

"Well, if you need to borrow any books," Strell said, glancing at his shelf lined with volumes in near perfect condition, in Orcish and Thalassian and Common. He was feeling very generous to the girl that was nothing more than a pupil to the troll. "She'll get far more out of them than I ever will."

"Dat's kind of ya, Ser Dayborne." Kinzal smiled and leaned back, stretching. "Ya madda wants you an' me ta start plannin' sometin' tomorrow, too."

"Torril's party for his betrothed," the elf said glumly. He settled down on the floor atop a soft carpet of red and gold.

The warrior nodded, his hair bobbing forward. "Ya knew?"

"That thing's been on the books for ages. I don't know why she wants _us_ to handle anything for it- Light knows the likes of us won't be allowed to attend. Or so much as show our faces."

"I don' know da first ting about elves' fancy parties," Kinzal admitted.

"I do," Strell sighed, trailing his finger over one of the thick swirls that decorated the carpet. "Unfortunately. Torril should be planning this, though. It's his stupid betrothed."

"You sound jealous," the troll teased, a chuckle filling his throat.

The elf frowned. He _wasn't_ jealous, not in the least. "Do I really? I have no reason to be. I cast off my betrothed specifically to avoid this sort of drivel."

"Cast off?" Kinzal asked, aghast.

"Yes. Broke it off, sent her packing, ended it. I never want to marry," he added bitterly. "_Anyone_."

"Never?" his keeper asked, still looking shocked.

"Never. You sound surprised," he said, a grin working its way over his lips. It was interesting to see Kinzal unsettled.

"We trolls mate for life. Though we do also believe in _frequent_ reincarnation," he added wryly, earning him a quick laugh from the elf. "But ta find someone, ta promise 'em dat an' den break da oath…"

"_I_ promised her nothing," Strell growled. "It was no oath of mine, but a pact of our parents' making when we were both still children at play. Same as Torril's betrothal now." He sighed. "But yes… Silvermoon feels as you do. My desire to never wed is fortunate, as I am considered thoroughly unweddable by good society. My mother has never forgiven me, I think."

"Ya not marriage material jus' because ya refused one match?"

"Well… it was the manner of it, too, I think," the elf admitted, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. "I told my fiancé the truth of it one evening at a party. I'd taken a bit of wine and it got the better of me, I suppose. But she agreed. Her heart was with another, a third son of a merchant family. _There's_ a challenging match. And as we commiserated, I made a plan to free us both, at least from _that_ particular bind."

"Not a_ good_ plan, I take it?" the troll asked.

"Perhaps not," Strell agreed, a quick smile crossing his lips. "These contracts won't be dissolved over the betrotheds' wishes, or even their hate for each other, but they _will_ be over even trifling embarrassments. I made more than a trifling scene, though, I'm afraid. Perfumed myself in rum and staggered out into the party. I _was_ half-drunk, I think, as much on eagerness to steer my own life as on any wine. I catcalled and told every bawdy joke I'd heard on the street, hinted at a few of the juiciest bits of gossip regarding some of the lords and ladies present… yet I think her family might still have pursued the marriage had I not enthusiastically kissed one of the servants in the middle of the ballroom."

Kinzal snorted. Strell was not certain what to make of his expression. It could have been amusement, or disgust, or disbelief. Maybe all three and more. He could be hard to read at times, even for a rogue.

"_He_ was quite taken with me, to my surprise. A good deal older than me and very tired of telling nobles that their shit smelled like roses, no doubt. He dunked his tabard in the punchbowl and rode out with me, and we fucked in their orchard. That was the beginning," he sighed. "Perhaps I lost my senses- I care not, I am the better for it now. I do not envy my brother's engagement _or_ his party."

"What happened ta ya fiancé? She get her sweetheart?" Kinzal crouched down across from him now, his long legs coiled beneath him.

The elf scoffed. "No, of course not. That's the price of keeping their precious honor. She was married off to some eldest son, the last of his line, near twice her age. A poor trade, in retrospect? I have wondered if she regrets it now… but surely he is a better husband to her than I would have been. That is a sort of honor, is it not? Walking away from a situation you know yourself to be ill-suited for?"

Kinzal shrugged, his forehead creased in thought. "I'd like ta tink so," he muttered. "What good's a soldier too uneasy ta be trusted wit' a shift? Ta stand his ground an' hold his post? I left when I didn't tink I could anymore," he said bitterly. "Dey'll call ya a coward, an' craven, but it be worth the derision in da end. Maybe."

"Without doubt," Strell muttered in reply. The troll looked more despondent with each second that passed, clearly drifting to thoughts of Northrend. The rogue thought to turn him back to the present. "Of course, there are many lords and ladies that try to indulge their desires while keeping up appearances. That's a treacherous walk, but I've seen it enough… Torril and I, we're only half-brothers. Did you know?"

Kinzal glanced up at the sudden revelation, his eyes so wide that the elf could see the entire band of amber that ringed his pupil. "You an' Torril? Which of ya parents…" A beat later he looked guilty.

Strell poked him in the shoulder and gave him a look to let him know he didn't mind. "You're stuck dealing with our brand of insanity. You might as well know us true. My parents… well, it wasn't a marriage of love. Most aren't, with nobles." He rocked back and forth gently. "Torril isn't my father's," he whispered.

"Who's he be den?" the troll asked after a moment.

"Someone blond," the elf said with a hollow laugh. "Someone that my mother actually _likes_. I doubt if Torril even knows who sired him. We didn't even know until we overheard her complaining to her sister about it once when we were younger and asked our father what she meant," he said with a shrug. "Now it's just that uncomfortable not-so-secret that no one speaks of. The heir, a bastard? What a jest. And does it not strike you as a little ironic?"

Kinzal raised his brows in silent question.

"My mother, always so offended by me," he mused as he wound a loose thread from the hem of his shirt tight round his finger. "She, who could not even be bothered to give my father a child before engaging in her own trysts. From what I understand, he had to plead with her to get me. Gave her a wing of the house for her own use, agreed to let her keep her lovers on the side, allowed her a stipend from his own family's fortune for her discretion."

"He cares much for ya."

"Yes… well, I wonder if he thinks I was worth it all, now. Me, his only trueborn son, a depraved little madman."

"So ya brudda… he's ta be da lord, be he ain' of ya fadda's blood. Shouldn' you be da heir, den?"

Strell made a face. "It would be wasted. And mother couldn't have that, anyway. People would be curious as to why Torril was passed over- he's so unfalteringly _good_, and I'm… well, I'm _me_. He can have it, all of it. I wonder if it's a mercy or a burden for him, though."

Kinzal let out a lengthy sigh.

"I tire you with stories, or exasperate you with our follies," he said with a quick grin.

"I thought it was hard ta keep up wit four bruddas an' three sistahs. Ya got jus' da one, and it seems like more trouble between da two of ya den my whole family put togetha."

"That's a lot of siblings."

The troll bared his teeth in a grin. "Well, my madda an' fadda was real close. Loved each other sometin' fierce. Got da numbers ta prove it," he chuckled. "I got an olda brudda an' sistah. Everyone else came afta me. Already an uncle. Got a new niece on da way, I hear. An' a weddin' come summer for Janquil."

Strell couldn't help but smile at Kinzal's monotone delivery of the news. "That sounds exciting. Are you so jaded you cannot even enjoy a wedding?"

The warrior snorted. "Da tart chose me as her Hand, da one ta help her get ready an' stand at her side for da ceremony. She only did it so she can make me dress however she want. Mark my words, she gonna have me up dere in a loincloth made of bee-flowers."

"I think that sounds like an event worth attending," the rogue said brightly.

"Ya can come, but only if ya volunteer ta take my place," he chuckled. "Nah, on second thought… she'd like ya. Ya'd conspire togetha. An' I'd end up in a bee-magnet loincloth _an'_ have a bunch of little elf dicks drawn in my facepaint besides," he said, his glare at the rogue softened by a quirk of his lips.

"Would you like one big troll dick better?" He laughed as he ducked the book that the warrior flung at him. "Or maybe a bunch of shapeless raptors," he suggested, cocking his head mockingly.

He yelped as the troll lunged at him, but it quickly turned to laughter when he found himself flat on his back, the tips of his ears brushing the plush carpet beneath him. He gave Kinzal a mischievous wink and hooked a leg around his waist as he rolled, pulling the troll with him until he sat triumphantly across his abdomen, his keeper laid out on his back.

"Ya couldn' come," the warrior said decisively from beneath him. "Ya'd be all over my sistah. Janquil's no maiden, but her betrothed'd spit blood if he caught ya wit' her."

"You sound so certain I'd pursue her!" Strell said cheerfully, a soft chuckle on his lips. He pressed his weight down on Kinzal's middle, feeling the hard plank of muscle beneath him. "But why go for the sister when I have her handsome brother already?" he purred.

Kinzal was stone-still, but his eyes gleamed with a hunger that excited the rogue. He made no move to press himself closer to the elf, but neither did he shy away from his touch.

"You have more self control than I do," Strell noted as he slid his hand up the broad slopes of the troll's thickly muscled chest, wishing that he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt. He felt it rise and fall beneath his fingers, his captive keeper's breaths coming fast and shallow.

"I'm supposed ta," the warrior mumbled, his three-fingered hands curling into loose fists up beside his mohawked head. "Ya don' wanna prove 'em right, remember? An' I don' wanna lose my job."

Strell remembered those words, vaguely. He bit his lip. "I… I don't," he agreed. If he knew that it could be kept secret, maybe. But the walls here often had ears, and he didn't trust himself to keep quiet if Kinzal was as impressive as the doodle he had drawn in the sand weeks ago. He nodded to himself. "They were right to choose you," he said after a moment, though he couldn't keep a tinge of disappointment from his voice. "Made of steel, you are."

"Not so," the troll chuckled. He relaxed now, confident that the situation was under control, Strell supposed. He uncurled his hands and allowed the elf to press his palms flat against his; his hands wrapped easily around Strell's, swallowing them up.

Strell felt the calluses left by his sword, the raised little scar where he'd lost a finger and regrown it. Kinzal resisted when the elf tried to guide those hands to his slender waist, though.

"Ya… tempt me," the warrior admitted uneasily. He wrested his hands free again, eying his ward warily. "But I gotta listen ta da head on my shoulders."

"I'll have to try that sometime," the elf said with a slight smile. He laid his hands flat on the warrior's flat belly and eased backward, sliding further down until he straddled Kinzal's hips. At the troll's sudden tensing and stuttered protest, he shrugged and said, "I just had to know if I really _was _tempting you. You're a hard one to read at times."

He smiled wickedly at the warrior's discomfort. Kinzal's stiffened cock had tented the front of his loose breeches. Strell could feel it, a hard heat that strained against the fabric as it pressed against his backside. As he slid back over the thick length that arched underneath the brown twill, a satisfied noise escaped him.

Kinzal looked less pleased and more tortured. "Apologies, Ser Dayborne," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched hard. His face was flushed, the blue skin turning a sultry shade of plum across his cheeks and lips. He looked good enough to kiss, aside from the nearly foot-long tusks that made it precarious to lean in.

"No need for apologies," the young elf said as he gathered his feet under himself and bounced up into a crouch. He offered a hand to the troll to help pull him up, but found he was quite useless at that. Kinzal was easily twice his weight and likely would have just pulled the rogue back on top of him.

The troll was still flustered as he stood, trying futilely to hide the unmistakable signs of his erection. "'M gonna be in da bathroom," he said hastily, sounding out of breath. He kept his gaze everywhere but on the elf as he shuffled sideways, hands still cupped over his front.

The rogue grinned to himself and padded to the bathroom door once it was closed. He pressed an ear to the white-painted wood and his grin split wider. "Need any help in there?" he asked sweetly, knowing it was in poor taste to tease his frustrated keeper but loving it all the same. He was nursing his own arousal, anyway- it wasn't as though Kinzal would be the only one suffering through this tension.

He offered the warrior some friendly advice through the door- describing his own preferences in vivid detail, sharing things he'd seen especially talented whores do, admitting scenarios he liked to imagine- and all the while he tended to his own weeping erection, biting his lip to stifle the moans that threatened to escape from time to time. It wouldn't do to let Kinzal know that he was just as hot and bothered by the troll, and all without his even trying.

His voice trailed off at times, the elf occasionally getting lost as he listened to the faint noises within the bathroom, but each time he would recall himself and pipe up with some new lewd suggestion for his keeper.

The troll's muffled snarls were worth it, and truth be told, they only made him harder. Strell didn't have the first clue about how to speak Zandali, but he was fairly certain he'd been cursed to hell and back a few times, too. By the end, Kinzal was muttering darkly against the gap where the door met the wall, promising to repay the elf in kind one day.

Light, Strell _hoped_ he would.

* * *

This was it, then. A moment like Strell had been waiting for. It had presented itself so suddenly, and all of his things were ready, and yet…

_Too soon, too soon_, he chided himself. But was it? Or was he just clinging to this place for the sake of one person? _A little sexual tension is no reason to stick around_, he told himself. And neither was friendship, or whatever it was that he shared with Kinzal.

Over the weeks he had ventured down to the vault piled with gold in his father's study and taken just little enough each time to go unnoticed- he now had a hefty sum in coins, enough to pay his way for half a year if he restrained himself. His knives were all stored away in a fold of aged leather, which was in turn tucked into a knapsack stuffed with clean clothing. He had his papers, his jewelry, his lockpicks, and the letters of promise to house him from merchants and commonfolk alike.

But now he paced, wasting this brief window of opportunity as he fretted over whether it was the time to leave. The rogue paused by his desk during his circuit of the room, running his fingers over the raised designs etched on his cast iron abomination.

With the edges ground smooth and even, it did indeed have the appearance of a bowl, if a little lopsided. The designs were even quite artistic, at first glance. He smiled at it, briefly considering bringing the hunk of metal… but it was too heavy. Severely impractical.

He set the bowl back down and sighed. Kinzal's cot and bag of belongings seemed to stare at him accusingly, in turns galling him and half-convincing him to stay. The repaired window loomed beyond it, reminding him of the thing he didn't like to acknowledge when he was alone- the creeping fear of monsters in the wood and the false safety of walls. To leave would mean no more contemptuous glances from servants, no summons from his mother, no worries about being the next to be dragged into the forest, no slinking about in his brother's shadow.

This was his opportunity to leave for _good_, and to have a decent head start. His mother had summoned Kinzal for some discussion concerning his pay, the servants were attending their monthly meeting, and his father and Torril were both occupied with his brother's studies upstairs in the library. Not a soul would be witness to his leaving.

Still, he acknowledged the sting of guilt that made his insides twist. By running away, he would likely cost the warrior his job. Kinzal might forgive him, or he might curse him. Three nights ago they had made talk of weddings and he had shared family secrets that none but his blood knew with the troll. They'd nearly had a good hard fuck, too, and it filled his mouth with a bitter taste to think that the warrior might spurn him completely after this.

It was a repellent thought, but no more repellent than remaining in this stagnant place where there was only one friendly face to greet him.

Kinzal came unbidden into his mind's eye, flushed dark with arousal, body dripping with pond water, his prick standing proudly. The elf pressed his legs together and tried to shake the thought, but it was only replaced by the troll sharing his bed, his arm wrapped protectively around him as they cocooned themselves in blankets. _Not much better,_ he thought sourly, wondering whose side his imagination was on.

He thought of Torril, briefly, and then his father. But the reminder of Kinzal returned with a vengeance, filling him with doubt and almost convincing him to throw aside all of his preparation to blithely accept his life here. _Almost_.

_I've lived my whole life selfishly_, he thought as he gathered his things. _Why stop now?_

But he did stop, though only for a moment. Strell rummaged for a piece of uncrumpled parchment and pulled his ink pen from a drawer.

He jotted down a brief letter to his father, apologizing and absolving the troll of any guilt in the matter. His mother might toss Kinzal out on the doorstep without a second thought, but his father would perhaps search for some other manner in which he could continue to employ the trustworthy troll.

Strell was grateful for that. He let the letter be his thin little bulwark against the shame and longing that threatened to cow him into staying. Kinzal would find some better means of employment, surely. And if not…

He bit his tongue and dismissed the thought. With a last look around his lavishly furnished room- pointedly letting his gaze slide over his iron bowl and Kinzal's cot- he pulled on his cloak and knapsack and darted down the stairs, silent as a shadow.

* * *

**I don't know what I'm doing anymore :|  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**I am bad at blood elf lore. I apologize for any weird discrepancies with established stuff?**

**Thanks to everyone that reviewed! This was going to be a much longer chapter, but once I hit the 39 page mark I thought it might be best for all involved if it got broken in half. Strell's brother Torril gets his own pov time to shine here. :)  
12/23: Went back and fixed a few typos, but I'm certain more elude me...**

* * *

The house seemed more like one of the dry crypts where ashes were stored than an actual home, lately. Everything was hushed, as though some terrible beast slept below the floorboards and all feared to wake it. The servants moved about as if walking on eggshells, and even the maids and lads that normally greeted him with smiles avoided his gaze now.

Torril let his broad shoulders sag as he sighed and allowed himself one more brief moment to wallow in disappointment and anger. It was half because of _this_, another gossip-worthy moment courtesy of his brother, and half for Kinzal.

He was tempted to ask a servant to help him with his armor, but in the end he simply wore it out on the grounds as he continued his search. It wasn't particularly hard to spot the troll. The elf had paid attention to him and knew his favourite places to steal away when he wasn't bound to his brother. That he stood head and shoulders above every other occupant of the estate didn't hurt, either.

The blond elf spotted him at the free-standing pavilion down near the brook that fed the pond and smiled. It was a place dear to him, too, where meditation came easy and prayers felt heard.

Torril winced at his horrible clinking and clanking as he approached, suddenly regretting his choice to leave his practice armor on. Self-conscious, he started furiously scratching at the dark, crusted stain on his breastplate from a recent nosebleed. He frowned when the metal remained tinged with red-brown, and when he looked back up the troll was watching him.

The paladin suddenly felt like a crab steamed in its shell; sweat tickled his palms within his gauntlets and trickled down his back. "Hello," he greeted as he clanked closer, smiling with gritted teeth and willing himself not to flinch with each noisy step.

"Ser Dayborne," Kinzal greeted, rising to meet him. "Did dey need me back already?"

"No, I'm afraid not," the elf said, a troubled look passing over his features. "I just… thought to speak with you." _Before you are dismissed and I do not have the chance_, he did not add.

The tall warrior considered him quizzically but welcomed the elf to sit with him, making space on the bench that ringed the inside of the pavilion. The cushions were plump and comfortable, spun from a fabric that resisted the weather and was dyed a deep maroon. Pillows of all sorts of warm hues were scattered along the seat as well, the occasional stray leaf lying atop them.

Torril settled uneasily beside the troll. In his silent prayers at the tower, he had hoped for a friend like Kinzal.

He had watched them over the weeks from the confines of his bedroom, or the study, or the training room. What seemed an onerous burden to his brother looked like Torril's fondest dream- they painted and carved, spent hours reading and playing cards, hunted and fished in the wood and returned soaked and grinning.

But Strell had done his vanishing act again, and left his keeper high and dry. Torril had expected more anger from the troll, more disbelief, but it seemed that Kinzal had come to know his brother well. After the initial surprise of finding him missing, he had resignedly accepted it, just as he now waited for his fate concerning the Dayborne household.

Even now his parents argued over what to do with the warrior, though the paladin-in-training was unpleasantly certain of what the outcome would be. His father had a way of relenting to his mother, and she had been wroth to see that he had selected a troll to share their home; no, she would not suffer him to dwell here any longer now that he had failed his duty, impossible as it was.

Unless…

"I apologize for my family," he said quietly, his hands clasped on his lap before him.

The troll turned and offered him a wan smile. Torril felt his cheeks heat as he watched the way his blue lips stretched and curved around those thick tusks, scratched and nicked and stained a faint red. "Nuttin' ya need ta apologize for," he said with a sigh.

"No one could have stopped him leaving," the elf sighed. He stared into his lap, flexing his gauntleted fingers to keep them busy. "He holds no love for us. You were asked to keep the rain from falling," he said with a frown.

"He loves ya," Kinzal said quietly, glancing at him sidelong. "He jus'… can' bear dis place. He craves excitement it don' have. An' sometimes ya gotta leave what ya love ta realize how important it is ta ya."

Torril listened, but he didn't believe it for a moment. He had known his brother all his life. "He cares for me no more than he cares for the walls that kept him," he insisted.

The troll groaned as he settled forward, his elbows resting on his finely mailed thighs. Torril felt his gaze drawn to the copper bracelets that ringed his arms, bands interwoven and stamped with intricate lines. "I tink ya brudda _does_ care for ya. How he shows it… is in keepin' his distance."

"I do not want his distance. We were inseparable as children."

"But now he says he da wrong sort for ya ta be seen wit," Kinzal said. _His eyes are kind_, Torril thought. Not at all like Clanys the gardener whispered, that they looked hard like a beast's.

The elf pressed his lips together. "But when we are not in public," he said with a shake of his head. "I don't understand why we could not have it be a secret. He keeps so many _other_ secrets. He will sneak away to- to- to visit a brothel, or meet his friends, but not to speak with me."

He glanced up and saw the troll watching him with a torn expression.

"I apologize," he said quickly, swallowing. "I did not come here to talk of such things. I came to ask if you might still be interested in staying on here, if you were offered another job."

Kinzal's face brightened at that, and Torril's heart fluttered beneath layers of leather and metal. "Is dat da talk up in da house?"

The young paladin shook his head, his face going hot. "I did not mean to get your hopes up like that. There is no sure word from them yet," he said, his tone conveying his disappointment. "But I thought that… I mean, if you had nowhere better to go, I could ask them. It might help." It seemed silly now that he said it aloud.

"I wouldn' want ya ta get in trouble on my account," the warrior said. Torril had expected as much.

"Even if it was trouble, it would be worth it," he said resolutely.

"And what would dey keep me for?" Kinzal asked wryly.

Torril squirmed in his seat. "As… I don't know. As a friend. Not a friend," he amended quickly. "I saw you teach Strell. Iron casting and card games and raptor calls. I would like to learn such things," he said eagerly.

"Not really sometin' I'd tink dey'd need _me_ for," he chuckled.

"Who else?" the elf asked, on the verge of biting his lip.

"If… if dat's sometin' ya really want, an' ya don' tink it'd be any trouble, den ask 'em," the troll said at last. "I'd… appreciate dat."

Torril allowed himself a grin upon seeing Kinzal's cheeks color and his head bow gratefully. "It would be nice," he murmured, "to have other things to do. Things that aren't studying or training. Not that I am ungrateful. There are many who would wish to walk my path."

The elf breathed deeply, relieved by the way the conversation had gone; he looked out of the pavilion and watched the golden leaves drift down around them. More than once he chanced to glance at Kinzal- he stared out at the trees, too, looking contemplative. His profile was striking. Severe, maybe. The shape of the warrior's nose reminded the elf a little of his own, even if of a greater size- broken several times over, his own nose was something Torril had once overheard a woman remark as the only flaw to his otherwise handsome and finely formed face.

Somehow, he doubted the troll would see his bent nose as something marring.

"Ser Dayborne," the warrior said after a few minutes had passed in silence. His amber-eyed gaze drifted back to him and the paladin felt the same swell of warmth in his gut and chest that he got from Captain Niandra. "What is it ya wanna do? Wit ya life, I mean."

Torril felt puzzled by that, and he was certain it showed on his face. "I… I will become a lord, but hopefully not for many years yet. I am nearly finished with my training. If some trouble should come to Eversong, I would defend it," he said, growing certain and proud toward the end. But doubt crept back in when the trollish warrior shook his head at him.

"I mean… what does Ser Torril Dayborne dream of? What would ya do if ya _didn'_ have ta be a lord here?"

The blond elf swam in that question for a few long moments. Then a slow smile spread as he leaned in, as if sharing a secret. "I have sometimes imagined being sent away," he admitted shyly. "To help the Reliquary, or to the front in Northrend- not to fight," he added quickly, his cheeks going scarlet. "To... to heal. Ser Flamesbreak has said that I am adept at it." More than adept, but he didn't want to boast.

"Dere's always need for more healers," Kinzal told him with an approving nod. "It ain' work for da weak of stomach, though, not out dere," he added somberly.

"I am not as stone when I see bloodshed, but neither am I weak. I have healed many grievous wounds, and even seen some too grave to repair. My order tends the streetfolk," he explained, his eyes growing warmer. "It is part of our service as junior members. Three days a week we go to them and provide what we can- I have set the bones of urchins and cured sicknesses and even delivered babes. It is not easy work, no, nor for the faint of heart, but there is no greater reward."

"Sounds like ya enjoy it," Kinzal said, his head tilting.

"I do," Torril said, his smile beginning to fade. "But… it will end when I am made a come into the estate. It is not seemly for a lord to mingle so with the lowborn," he stated, repeating the words that he knew so well.

Kinzal shrugged. "Seems ta me like a lord could do whateva he wants. What's da point in bein' so high an' mighty if ya can' even do what ya like?"

Torril frowned at the troll's words. "Nobility is a position of obligation. Duty. We cannot rule ourselves as the baseborn do- you cannot have the power of a lord or lady but act the commoner. That is my brother's folly."

"How is healin' dem street urchins acting like a commoner? Healin' ain' beneath a lord, is it?"

"No," the paladin said at once. "No. It is… there have been lords and ladies that served indiscriminately."

"'S selfless," the warrior said approvingly. "Like you."

Torril shook his head, his brow furrowing. "Selfless… but _selfish_, too. It cast derision on them and their houses. To associate with the whores and thieves is to cast you into doubt, and eventually that shame spreads to the rest of the family."

"So, who _do_ lords heal?"

"We lead," he sighed. "Anything less is an insult to a lord's house." But he thought, too, searching for words that felt right. Kinzal seemed to expect it from him. "I will… perhaps strike out on my own for it. I do not need the permission of the Light's Hand to visit the gutters and offer my aid," he said, feeling more assured of the words as he spoke them.

"Ya'd go do dat on ya own?"

The elf shrugged uneasily. "I do not see the harm. If I was anonymous, even the nobles could not be troubled by it. There are enough dark forces at work in the night. Why not one of light?"

"Why not?" the warrior agreed, another smile bringing his teeth to bare.

Torril laughed quietly, already feeling warm from the troll's attentions. It was odd to be asked so many questions, and to be expected to say so much, but he found he liked it. Especially with the warrior listening.

"Thank you," the paladin said after a moment. It was a strange feeling of contentment that filled him now, something akin to the certainty that took him when he was mending flesh or righting bone. With every moment he felt more confident that he _would_ do these things, that he would not surrender this one passion of his. "For asking me."

"Ya remind me of one of ma bruddas," Kinzal said, leaning back and resting his arms on the pillows.

"Really?"

The troll nodded, his gaze drifting back to the leaves. "He always had a knack for helpin' people. Had a way wit da ancestors. Became a shaman an' did his healin' all over Kalimdor, til dey got swarmed in Ahn'Quiraj." He ran his hand over his vermillion arc of hair of hair and sighed. "Da next expedition through foun' da bones. But at leas' we got sometin ta burn on da pyre. More den what comes back from Northrend, at leas'."

"I'm sorry," Torril said. The words seemed small and worthless, but he said them anyway. It was all he knew how to say when it came to things like this- and that was part of why he loved to heal the sickly and the maimed. Where words fell short, his ability to piece people back together flourished, and then he could do more than say 'I'm sorry'. But this was different.

The troll nodded, his tall fan of hair bobbing. "Ya be a good kid-" He stopped himself and laughed. "I called ya a kid again. Ya older den me, aren' ya?"

The paladin nodded, a meek smile crossing his lips. "And older than Strell. Would that _he_ had been born first… no. That was unkind of me," he said immediately, feeling his cheeks and ears grow hot. "My brother chafes under even the slightest obligation from us. How poorly he could bear to have such expectations upon him."

"He don' like nobody tellin' him what ta do, dat one," Kinzal mused. "An' he'll do anyting ta break loose, consequences be damned." He picked up one of the gold-crimson leaves that had fluttered in and landed on a nearby pillow, twirling it between his thumb and a large finger.

"It's true," Torril agreed, wondering how his mother had born two children so different.

* * *

The visit to the first tavern since his escape began exuberantly- ale flowed like the legendary Southfury as Strell found himself embraced and kissed and pulled onto the laps of his many acquaintances and admirers. He settled on a vivacious redhead for the night, grinning as he allowed her to take him by the hand and lead him up to her room when the party began to slow.

She was by no means the best he'd ever had, but after a dry two months and an agonizing few days with Kinzal, he felt relieved to be fucking anyone at all.

He stayed up until she slipped into slumber, curled up beside him, still stroking her tousled red locks. The rogue was not normally so suspicious, but his current supply of gold was all he had access to at the moment and he had grown wary after recalling all the times before that he had awoken to find whores had helped themselves to a little more coin than was agreed upon.

With her soundly asleep, he pulled his clothes back on and took up his bags, climbing out the window and crossing the rooftops until he left the vulgar district entirely.

The homes and buildings here took on a new character, all subtle shades of white and pale gold with trimmings of red, unlike the brothels and taverns that painted themselves crimson. Tendrils of vines climbed the walls, and numerous trellises aided him greatly in covering ground as he climbed.

At last Strell found the address he had been searching for. He shimmied down onto the balcony, squeezed between the topiaries, and tap-tap-tapped at the glass of the door there. Upon hearing muffled footsteps shuffling down the hall, he pressed his face to the glass and grinned wildly.

There was a high pitched shriek that quickly erupted into giggles, and within moments Effira was unlatching the lock and letting him inside.

"Sorry that I didn't have time to send you notice," he said, glancing down at the woman in her sheer, feathered nightgown.

"You _reek_ of alcohol and sex," the blond elf laughed. "You had time, you just chose to spend it at the first tavern you crossed," she accused.

"Fair enough," he said with a wince.

"Oh, I don't blame you, darling." She hesitated for a moment. "So… you wouldn't have happened to have brought your troll friend along?" she asked hopefully, peeking around him as if Kinzal was stashed away on the balcony.

"Afraid not, Effi," he sighed, feeling a pang as he thought of the troll. "I wish I could have, but he'd drag me kicking and screaming back to that place."

"Such a shame," she agreed sullenly. "Well, let me take you to the guestroom- you will have to forgive me, I have not had the sheets pressed," she said with a blush. "If I'd had some _notice_-"

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," Strell huffed. "And wrinkled sheets are the last of my concern. Thank you, Effi. I don't think my sanity could have withstood another fortnight there," he said with a tinge of bitterness. But he brushed the thoughts of recent events away and willed himself to think only of the present and beyond.

"Oh, darling," she consoled, hugging his arm. "Think nothing of it. You needn't even pay me rent- though if you stay more than a month I _will_ expect a visit in the night from a long-tusked troll, by your courtesy."

"Light, Effi, I'm half tempted to find you one just to put an end to this pining of yours," he chuckled.

"My goodness! Well, don't let me discourage you," she giggled coyly behind her hand as she wandered off back toward her own room.

Strell shook his head as he laid out his things and began to strip, abandoning his dark traveling clothes for something a bit more festive. Even if he felt torn on the inside, he _should_ be celebrating, and looking the part would be half the battle to get him in the festive mood.

He emerged from the guest room in black leather and a subtly shimmering silver shirt, earning him a thrilled gasp from Effi.

"Where should we go?" she asked, the piles of curls atop her head swaying as she bounced in place. "Oh, I know the most wonderful restaurant! It only opened a few weeks ago, so you haven't had a chance to go at all. Their cheapest wine is twelve gold per glass," she said with a grin.

"Oh… Effi, I can't," Strell said after a moment. Her grin fell, replaced by a mute look of confusion. "I have only what gold I took when I left, and I can't afford to be caught pickpocketing or stealing from the bank. They'd cart me straight back home," he said with an apologetic frown.

"Oh, darling, that's nothing," she said, her sweet smile returning. "I can pay your way-"

"No," he groaned, shaking his head. "Not this again-"

"Strell," she said at once, taking his hands in her own. "I may not have noble blood, or a lady's fine graces, but if there is one thing that I _do_ have in abundance," she giggled as he pointedly glanced down at her chest, "it is _gold_. If I don't spend it, then it just sits there, silly."

"No, it doesn't," the rogue argued. He knew it was lost, though. He could never resist her for long. "You're constantly loaning and investing-"

"Nevermind how I fill my coffers," Effira said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I speak enough about business with my sister. I want to have _fun_ with you. It's my gold, and I want to use it to take you out. Please, Strell? Please?"

"Fine, fine, fine," he said with a sigh. "I'm going to eat something beforehand so I don't want more than a course, though. Got any fruit?"

"Oh, you needn't do that," she huffed, but she pointed out a bowl piled high with apples and grapes anyway.

Strell plucked up a fat, red-skinned grape and popped it into his mouth, savoring the burst of ripe sweetness. He allowed himself a satisfied grin and snatched four more, tossing them back in quick succession. Was it just his imagination, or did every taste seem _richer_ with freedom?

* * *

The restaurant was impossibly lavish, following in the trend of the new establishments that had been rising in the wake of the city's reconstruction. After so much death, decay, and war, people wanted splendor. Strell found it hard to disagree with that notion.

Everything was gilded, from the banisters to the candlesticks, with airy curtains and heavy wreaths of roses and plush chairs that made him feel he was sitting upon a corpulent cloud. And the chandeliers _dripped_ with crystals, so many that hundreds of sparkling points of rainbow were cast throughout the dining room.

Strell could see why Effira loved the place already, but he doubted it would last a year. It was the very definition of gauche, and even the patronage of wealthy merchants would eventually ebb. The nobles would avoid it like the plague, of course.

Still, the food was pleasing and the wine was dark and sour, as he liked it.

"They have the best sautéed clams," Effira commented as they surveyed the menu. "And the cheese platters," she half growled, her eyes taking on a fervent zeal.

"You do love your cheese," the rogue replied with a half grin. "I should have brought you a wheel as a guest gift."

"Make it two," she said absently, her eyes roving the day's specials hungrily.

Strell laughed and laid down his menu, having decided on a dish of roast capon and buttered squash. "have I told you lately that I love you?" he asked, receiving a playful swat for his troubles.

He _did_ love Effira, had been drawn to her since they'd first met at a ball, years and years ago. He had been taken by her daring and her utter disregard for the stifling conventions of such occasions; at the time, he had attributed it to a fiery disposition, though now he knew better. Effira came from a merchant family that had risen in wealth after the destruction of Silvermoon, taking over various shops in the wake of the decimation, and their unbound behavior was more from a lack of understanding of social expectations than any flaunting of them.

Still, she was the best company he could ask for, and the only person he truly confided in. It didn't hurt that Effira had inherited her mother's keen eye for business and tripled her family's fortune in a year, and with all that wealth the elvish woman knew how to have a good time.

Effi clapped excitedly as their handsome waiter popped a bottle of champagne and let it spill into her fluted glass, all the while waxing poetic on her beauty.

Strell watched it all sourly, sipping his red and glaring daggers at the slick elf as he practically draped himself over her. She _was_ beautiful, in a way that would make her a prize at any brothel but earn her the scorn of wellborn women everywhere- voluptuous and painted up like a doll, with scarlet lips and ever-pink cheeks and clothes cut to flatter her from head to toe. There was no reason some random waiter should not pay her a few compliments, yet Strell misliked the waiter's flowery words and ushered him away with their orders.

"Strell," Effi complained as she picked up her glass. "Unless _you_ mean to warm my bed, stop scaring them off," she said lowly.

"If these dregs are your only alternative, then you may gladly have me," he said under his breath, still staring hard at the waiter. He was pressing close to another woman now, and no doubt filling her ears with honeyed words as well.

Effira wrinkled her nose. "It would be like... like..."

"A dream come true?" he asked with a quick grin.

She kicked him under the table. "You know what I mean."

He did. They were too alike for that- she was the sister he'd never had, delightfully devious and gossipy but generous and loyal when it counted. He had a feeling they'd both just feel awkward if they ever tried. "Not _him_," he insisted. "Look at that snaggletooth."

"I think it's darling," she argued, smiling as she watched him pour for another table.

"I think he'd leave your bed cold and your purse empty," Strell countered.

"You think that about _everyone_ I see."

_And I am right, often as not_. But he couldn't say that to her, not when he knew that she was painfully aware of that. "If my brother wasn't promised..." he said wistfully, though it was an empty thought for many more reasons than just Torril's engagement. His mother would never consent to see her precious son given to a merchant's daughter, much less one that counted Strell as a friend.

"You brother is so sweet, but I would drive him mad," Effira sighed. "He _is_ a good man, though."

"Too good," Strell agreed. "He will make his wife proud in public, but she will weep in her lonely bed," he predicted.

"You underestimate him," Effi said with a wave. "Does he still pine for the city guard's captain?"

"Always," the rogue sniggered. "Just say her name and his cheeks glow. But he shares your interest in Kinzal."

Effira's eyebrows rose at that, and a small grin curved her painted lips. "Perhaps we would make a better couple than I thought... Still, this charming waiter-"

"Is a cretin. Look at how he fawns over that girl." He nodded in the direction of their waiter's newest woman to dote on.

"Fair enough," Effi said reluctantly, taking a long draw of her champagne. "He is no troll anyway," she added with a sigh. "Oh! I see your sweet little friend!"

"Sweet? What friends do I have that could be called- oh, it's Mistren," he said with a crooked smile as he turned in his seat and spied the younger elf.

Mistren was robed in the same slick attire as the waiters and waitresses, black trousers and tunics with white trims- though it somehow looked less striking and more frumpy on him- but his job was not to wait on the wealthy patrons. Instead, he was running himself ragged in clearing the dishes from empty tables and preparing them for new guests.

"Mistren!" Strell called toward him, wincing when the little elf nearly dropped a platter piled high with boar's rib bones at the sound of his name.

"Ser Strell," he said shyly on his approach, nervously running his hand over the fluffy blond locks that had been temporarily tamed with gratuitous use of hair wax.

The rogue licked his teeth behind his smile. "You work here now? What of your job at that florist's?"

"I still work there, too, ser," Mistren said softly, his bright eyes turned down on the floor.

"Oh, poor dear. That is too much for such a delicate boy," Effi said, in between casting cool looks at the flirtatious waiter across the room.

Strell frowned at that. "What of... the gold?" It seemed so long ago, that day at the bank, but not long enough for him and his sister to have used all hundred and fifty coins.

The boy blushed scarlet and twisted the rag in his hands, and for a quick moment Strell wanted to pull him onto his lap and batter those lips with kisses, push him down across the china and tablecloth and take him there. But the moment passed when Mistren said, "Stolen, and we'd only managed to pay the rent we had due," the elf lamented. "But... perhaps we had it coming for how we got it, ser."

The rogue sighed and slid his half-eaten bowl of soup away disinterestedly. The twins' innocence thrilled him almost as much as their fear of chastisement made him weary. "You did nothing wrong. It was my scheme. Are you both eating well?"

"Yes, Strell," the blond elf said with a tiny smile. "If you visit, we'll make you stew and dark bread, as you like."

"I will," the rogue promised, the corner of his mouth curving. "And soon." _And bearing guest gifts, _he thought as he noted the loose fit of the younger elf's trousers. If the pair decided to repay him with their affection, all the better.

"Best return to your work, dear," Effi added quietly. "I see a woman with a lifetime of frown lines staring this way."

"Be sure you get our table when we leave," Strell added with a wink. "Else our blighted waiter might snatch up what gold we leave for you."

Mistren beamed and bowed low as he shuffled backward, very nearly colliding with a waiter smoothly carrying two trays stacked with dishes.

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur of afternoons touring Effi's production shops with her and evenings attending dinners and parties, late mornings spent in blissful half-slumber, and stolen kisses with the comely boys and girls that stood watch along the nighttime streets- though Strell was a better guest than to bring anyone into Effira's apartments.

He had meant to find work sooner, and to visit the shady rogues that shared the secrets of thievery and daggerwork in Murder Row, but his first week of unrestrained independence had taken him hard- there were no sharp eyed servants here, nor disapproving mothers, nor keepers to hold him in check. And certainly no dark and deadly forces dragging women away in the night...

The dark-haired elf was at liberty to laze about and galavant about with riffraff as he liked, which was as exhilarating as it was tiring. For now, though, there was little more that he wanted to do than roll from his bed into the kitchen, then maybe visit a tavern of ill repute or call on Mistren and Larilla.

The rogue at least mustered the strength to _walk_ from the guestroom rather than roll, grabbing a cold pastry from a pan atop the counter as he shambled into the dining room where Effi sat amidst a pile of papers.

"Accounts?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

The blond elf nodded absently as she scribbled numbers into a ledger. "Strell, be a dear and burn the ones over there, would you?"

A stack of letters was piled by the hearth, all of them unopened and all quite recognizable to Strell. Not this lot in _particular_, but he knew them well enough. Near two dozen letters here, and doubtless each one had some grievance with Effira's cut-throat manner of business.

"How are your incomes looking?" the rogue asked off-handedly as he tossed the complaints into the feeble fire.

"Splendid. The crafting guilds are as quarrelsome as ever, of course," she added with a touch of bitterness, "but it is no cause to worry. I've had a new loom designed, actually, one that promises even better production. The old tailors will fall even further behind my girls..."

Strell smiled at that. Effira loved nothing more than efficiency, except perhaps gold; not even the sorrowful complaints of dozens of impoverished artisans could sway her from her pursuit of it. "I am not certain what skills I could offer, but-"

"Oh, darling, I would never hire you," she said at once, folding her slim hands in her lap. "I never hire friends. It makes it so much harder to send them away when they don't meet expectations. But that should be of no concern to you- you have my home and my purse, as ever. If you need gold, simply ask!"

The rogue smiled gratefully to mask his mild disappointment. Having to ask for gold was just another tether, and Effira had done more than enough to aid him already. He would seek employ _somewhere_...

_Once I get settled,_ he told himself. Strell straightened out his wrinkled shirt as best he could before settling down in a chair next to Effi.

He stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth and frowned as he picked up a crimson envelope from the table. "What's this?" he asked, flipping the offensively bright letter over and raising his eyebrows at the wax seal that displayed a rose in full bloom.

Effira cupped her blushing cheek with a hand. "Oh, another letter from my mysterious gentleman caller," she sighed. "So romantic…"

Strell did not like that at all. "A red envelope? Crass," he commented as he broke the seal and fished out the note inside.

"It's not crass, it's a sign of his passion for me," she protested. "Yes, go on, read it. You'll find he's a true and proper gentleman, and a lovely poet besides."

"Oh, a _poet_," he said with mock admiration. "Such a rare gift! I certainly _never_ hear lordlings string together a half-dozen rhyming phrases and then name themselves 'poet'," he muttered scathingly, earning himself a furious frown from his host. He flipped the letter open and gave it a cursory glance over. "Doesn't look like it was penned by a three-fingered hand," he noted. "I'm surprised you manage to harbor interest for anything that isn't seven feet tall and blue-skinned at this point."

"Oh, don't be silly, Strell," she chided as she went back to her sums. "It's like you with your pursuits- fun for a time, but not to settle down with. _This_ is a man I could _marry_," she exclaimed, pressing a fluttering hand to her ample chest.

"And what does this charming man write to you of?" the rogue asked as he set to reading. His sneer grew more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. "Oh... really, Effi?" he asked with an exhausted sigh.

She snatched the letter from his hands and read it herself. "What's wrong with this?" she nearly screeched. "'But the roses of my garden can comfort me no more, for I have lain eyes upon the sweetest blossom of them all. Soft as petals and with hair gold as sunshine, lips as red as the blood drawn by thorns- how can any flower compare to your beauty? I beg your favor, sweet rose, to meet me at last-' What's bad about that?"

"It's terrible writing, that's what," Strell argued. "And how did this man come to know of you?"

Effira giggled to herself and glanced down at her lap demurely. "Well, he first saw me out at the market, and being made too shy by my elegance he followed me home and took my address," she explained as she smoothed out her fluffy skirts under the table. "When he worked up the nerve to write me, he spoke of how the sight of me in that bustling bazaar caught him off-guard- how out of place I looked among the peons! And now he writes me weekly," she said with a happy sigh.

"And do you write him back?" Strell asked with an arched brow, markedly less taken by the mysterious suitor's romantic flair than his friend was.

"Oh, no, of course not, not after I responded to the first letter," she said as though it was obvious. "Such a familiar exchange with a noble I have never even met? It would be unseemly."

"How do you know he's actually a noble?" the rogue asked suspiciously.

"Strell," she chided, flashing him the letter, "do you really think some commoner could write like this?"

"Yes," he said as he snatched the parchment. "I do. There is an entire community dedicated to deceiving the wealthy out of their fortunes, Effi, and their forgeries regularly fool even the guards at the justice building. I would know," he muttered, snatching up an apple and taking a noisy bite out of it as he scanned the sappy letter.

"I do not know why you cannot just be happy for me," Effira said quietly from her chair, her gaze steady on her small gloved hands as she slowly spun her pen. A bit of black ink dribbled from the tip and stained the white lace on her fingers.

The fire in the hearth was crackling away merrily now, well fed by the letters the rogue had disposed of. It made the small dining room a bit too warm, but neither of them made any move to put it out or open a window.

Strell's eyes softened after a moment, and he sighed. "I will be happy for you once he has made his intentions open and courted you as is befitting a woman of your station," he said as rose and stood beside her chair to hug her. "You deserve to be dined with and taken to parties, not treated as a secret penpal."

A slow smile curved Effira's pink-painted lips. "Thank you, Strell. B-but… I am not of noble blood," she reminded him, her voice wavering. "Such a courtship is not something I can demand."

The rogue scoffed. "It is almost fashionable now for nobles to marry into new wealth," he told her truthfully. "The lords you seek will look at you, then your bank vault, and then take a knee to propose."

"Well," she said with a little laugh. "That _is_ what I want."

"Then you should have it," he told her as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But... see that you make them work a bit harder for your hand, and always keep hold of the purse strings."

"Oh, Strell. You know I would sooner choke a man with my purse strings than let him take them from me," Effira said with a sharp grin as she dripped hot honey-gold wax onto a letter and sealed it.

* * *

Strell shrugged out of his cloak as they dragged themselves through the door, exhausted from a night of dancing and carousing and one very ill-thought out plan to go frolic naked in the fountain in the Court of the Sun.

Effira's makeup had run in such a fashion that she looked half a monster, her eyes dripping black and the scarlet on her lips so smeared that she looked as though she'd gone cannibal.

"Not waterproof in the least," she said in a strangely flat voice as she passed the mirror in the entryway and stopped to survey the damage. The pale curls normally stacked upon her head had gone limp and fell in bedraggled clumps to her shoulders, and at some point during the evening her feathered blouse had been stolen. Now she was dwarfed in the silky undershirt that Strell had been wearing underneath his own attire, with her cloak wrapped tightly about her for good measure.

"These friends of yours are idiots," the rogue complained as he kicked off his soggy boots and frowned at the dirty stain they had left on the carpet.

"We both followed them in, so what does that make us?" Effi asked as she set to plucking pins from her hair and making ghastly faces in the mirror. In truth, she seemed almost delighted by the frightful appearance of her makeup, but maybe that was the lack of sleep and the waning influence of the wine.

"_Drunken_ idiots," he said, and they both chuckled softly. The cold spray of fountain water had sobered them quickly enough, as did the sudden screeching of the magical wards set up to protect the royal fountain from such follies.

Strell frowned as he felt something stick to his damp foot, and when he glanced down he saw a red corner peeking out from under it.

"Oooh, another letter from your dark and mysterious suitor," he teased as he tossed her the sealed red envelope that had been dropped through the mail slat.

"Oh, splendid!" Effi cackled as she slid a long nail under the flap and tugged it open, now sounding as deranged as she looked.

Strell groaned as he stumbled into the guest room and tore off his shirt. It had been ruined when some overly flirtatious friend of Effi's had slid up against him, eager to seduce- so eager that he didn't realize his lit roll of bloodthistle was pressing into Strell's shirt until it started to smoke and smolder.

He balled up the burned silk and threw it into the bin in the far corner, frowning as he recalled how much that particular shirt had cost. He didn't like the idea of having Effi buy him clothes, but perhaps a discount on some of her merchandise...

A sudden shriek from the other side of the wall made Strell pop his head out of the guestroom, eyes wide in alarm. He had a dagger at his hip and another, slimmer one up his sleeve, and both were in hand within a heartbeat. "Effi?"

But Effira stood alone in the entryway. She had covered her mouth with both hands and stood with her back pressed against the wall, eyes trained fearfully on the parchment lying opposite her on the floor.

"Effira? What is it?" Strell asked as he flew to her side, sheathing his blades so he could hold her close as she continued to draw slow, shallow breaths through her fingers.

"The l-l-letter," she wailed, pointing a shaking hand at the offending piece of post. "H-how _dreadful_," she cried into the back of her hand, further smearing her lipstick as she tried to wipe her nose and mouth.

Strell took one of her hands and squeezed it tightly, hoping to reassure her as he bent to pick up the letter. From here he could see that it looked… muddled, the script sloppier. No, that wasn't right- when he pulled it closer he saw that it was as elegant and controlled as ever, but the ink had blotched along the edges and bled from the swirled Thalassian letters as if it had been handled before drying completely.

He gingerly picked up the letter between his thumb and forefinger. The rogue could _smell_ it, as sharp and pungent as a fresh cut.

Not ink. _Blood_.

* * *

Torril liked the sound of Kinzal's voice. He liked it better than his own, truth be told. There was something lyrical about the way that he said things, the way his words seemed to roll out in that deep, smooth tenor. Sometimes Torril would close his eyes and imagine that he could feel everything the troll said wash over him like waves of saltwater.

The warrior's accent had taken time to understand, though. More than once he found himself smiling and nodding and hoping the troll didn't ask for his opinion on whatever he'd just said; if Kinzal noticed, he was kind enough to not draw attention to it, and they somehow managed to hold long conversations anyway.

The warrior told him about Orgrimmar (it was hot and dusty and smelled like swine, mostly), about the Barrens (where there was grass so tall that even _he_ could barely see over it), and about his experiences adventuring across the continents and into Outland (which involved fetching things and killing various beasts more often than not). On a few occasions he had found items of note, like armor that fetched a fair price in the cities, but mostly it seemed like an endless shuffling from one village to the next, taking silver and leftover armor in exchange for handling their problems.

Torril had few such experiences to share- he'd never left Eversong, but for the time they had taken to the sea after fleeing the country for the coast- and so he thought he would have had nothing to say at all. Somehow, though, Kinzal coaxed stories out of him that he'd never have thought to tell.

The troll seemed curious about paladins, and was courteous about the Light, though he preferred not to speak of where he placed his own faiths. Torril was glad to tell him the lessons he'd learned with the Light's Hand from the handful of renowned paladins that remained after the Third War. He told Kinzal how it felt when the Light coursed through his blood, as if the sun itself had poured into him- and what it was like to heal. That was harder to explain in words.

"It's like being a channel for water, or a rod for lightning," he said as he sat cross-legged beside the warrior on the grass. "It's... do you mind if I just..." The young paladin raised his hands and let them hover a foot above blue skin, his fingertips curling questioningly.

"Go righ' ahead," the troll grinned. "I got me a blister on ma heel, if ya don' mind," he chortled amusedly, wriggling his thick toes.

Torril's lips moved silently as he drew the Light toward him, a faint golden shimmer surrounding each of his hands. He laid them flush against the bare skin of the warrior's long, sinewy leg, just below his knee. "Do you feel it?" he asked, his face flush with excitement.

Kinzal nodded, his eyes wide at the dusting of light that danced over his skin.

"That's how it feels, but stronger. I don't even sense myself right now, or only barely- I'm as vast as the sky," he said softly, drawing in a deep breath. "Light as the wind. I always picture golden clouds roiling in the heavens, and myself among them..."

He let his hands curl into loose fists as the flow of Light to the troll slowed and stopped, though he felt it linger on inside of him, a tingling warmth that made the burden of his plate grow light and let his heart soar.

The warrior's lips peeled back in a smile that softened his eyes. "I wouldn' wish Northrend on anybody, but ya'd be good dere," he murmured.

Torril smiled uncertainly. "The Scourge... it would be good to see them defeated. To have a part in it, I mean. But... it's a terrible place, is it not?"

"Terrible," the troll agreed, "an' cold. Never enough light up dere."

The thought made the elf shudder. He'd grown so used to the ever-warm air of Eversong that he wondered if he would ever manage to survive in a lightless place like Northrend. "There is the Ghostlands here, and the Dead Scar..."

"Every time I see it, I tink of Dragonblight an' Zul'drak," Kinzal confessed, that far-off look slipping into his eyes.

"It's a distressing reminder to all," Torril said softly. He rose from the sun-warmed earth and offered his hand to the troll. "Come, we should visit the pavilion. The trees are in bloom- honeyblossoms. You'll swear you had a pot of honey right under your nose," he added with a quick smile.

The paladin pulled in a silent breath as the troll took his hand firmly and levered himself up. His skin was calloused and burned with warmth, the strength in his fingers undeniable.

They walked toward the thinly forested area that sheltered the pavilion, down at the bottom of the hill that their house crested. Torril was pleased with himself for suggesting it, and even happier that Kinzal had agreed.

Sometimes the troll would begin to speak of his own time in Northrend- never for very long, but enough that Torril began to understand his personal reasons for fleeing back south. It always left him sullen and sad after, it seemed, and the elf thought it best to distract the warrior before whatever dark thoughts that plagued him settled in.

He was used to it, in a way. His order often found straggling adventurers returned from the frigid continent waiting on their steps, pleading for some healing or potions or prayers to fix what was awry inside of them. But there was no elixir to mend that, no way to right the wrongs and horrors they had witnessed. The kindest thing was a gentle sleeping draught, but even that proved problematic. _The last thing we need is another addiction,_ he thought, reminding himself of the words Alliser Goldensong had once muttered to him when they had been forced to turn away the haggard veterans begging before the order's house.

They'd had to do that before, too, in the first months after the Scourge had descended upon them. Perhaps a handful of elves had survived the undead occupation, hidden in cellars with rats or underneath rubble and bodies, just fortunate enough to go unnoticed; but the bulk of the populace crying for help had come from elves returning to the city after their flight, like him and his family, distraught over the loss of their homes and friends and family. Nightmares plagued them, though few had them worse than those brave mages who helped clean and rebuild Silvermoon...

Kinzal had the nightmares. Torril had long suspected it- the dark beneath the troll's eyes spoke of restless nights, and few who had served where he had came back without such scars- but it wasn't until they were both lulled into a nap by the baking sun during a trip through the woods that he knew for certain.

The warrior's shouts had awoken him from a deep sleep and a warm dream of drifting under the ocean waves, but Torril's sleepy stupor had cleared immediately as he watched the troll writhe and wrestle with some nightmarish force that only he could see. The paladin knew better than to interfere, thanks to one similar incident years ago that had ended with his first broken nose, instead waiting until sweat dotted Kinzal's brow and his movements stilled to wake him.

The troll had had little choice but to admit it after that, and added that he'd become accustomed to taking sleeping potion during Strell's recovery from his fall.

Torril wasn't terribly surprised by that. He had seen the relief such potions gave to people that carried these dark dreams... and the lengths they would go to in order to get it. Often he had drawn guard duty over their stock of sleeping draughts and pain potions, and more than once he'd had to incapacitate desperate, would-be theives. "There is no shame in that," he had assured the warrior. "But such medicines are powerful, and deadly, and... addictive."

"An' expensive," Kinzal had added with a toothy smile.

The paladin nearly winced to think about it now. Kinzal was large, but even orcs and tauren had been known to drift into endless sleep from accidentally swigging too much draught. Besides, there were other ways to lessen the pains of terrible memories- ones that Torril was determined to see through.

The pavilion was one of the elf's favourite places on their estate, surrounded on all sides by thin, delicate trees with golden bark. In bloom, the boughs dripped with white-gold honeyblossoms, and you could peel apart the petals to find fat drops of nectar to taste with the tip of your tongue.

It was the perfect place for good memories to be made, ones sweet enough to block out the old, no matter how haunting.

Kinzal pulled his thick-bladed broadsword from the sheath on his back and held it out one handed, as comfortably as if it had been wood and paint rather than gleaming cobalt and steel. A falling honeyblossom landed on the flat of the horizontal blade and the troll grinned.

"Are you going to spar with the flowers, or me?" the paladin asked with a shy, teasing grin as he pulled out his own sword- it was shorter, with a curved taper toward its tip, but his nimbleness made up for the warrior's greater reach. He felt heat rise in his ears and cheeks as the troll laughed and tipped his blade to the side, dumping the blossom onto the ground that was littered with them.

Kinzal had echoed one of Torril's mentors in urging him not to let his swordsmanship fall behind his healing, and the elf was grateful for it. He'd been trained by esteemed paladins for years, had all the technical skill they could impart... but little actual testing in battle. On guard duty he warded off feebly armed commoners and rogues with cheap daggers that bent and snapped against his heavy plate, and in training he learned honorable combat.

Kinzal, however, was not above using tricks that the paladin's mentors would have decried. Their first few bouts had been a painful lesson in how much he had yet to learn, but the troll was a thorough teacher. Torril managed to use a few of Kinzal's tricks against him this time, finding the sun and angling himself to make the glare from his polished plate and sword into a weapon itself. Torril liked that trick well enough- it was just another way to use the Light, wasn't it?

The warrior cursed him, though, loudly and angrily... and proudly. But maybe that had been a trick too, because in his glee over having successfully bested the troll at his own game he lost sight of the warrior's long blade. Kinzal walloped him with the flat of it right on the side of his rear, so hard that Torril felt the welt rising even with all of his plate and leather.

"Trolls have no paladins," Torril stated afterward, when they were laid out in the pavilion with their swords next to them, their breathing finally slowing. He felt sore all over, especially on his hip and backside, but it was a good soreness, the sort that led to strength.

"Nah," Kinzal said with an easy shake of his head. "The rest of ya don' need 'em."

"The rest of us?" the elf asked, raising his head from the pillow to stare at the troll.

Tusks and teeth flashed in a broad smile. "A troll paladin'd be unstoppable. Erryone else'd jus' have ta quit, mon."

"You're saying trolls would make better paladins?" Torril asked incredulously, a half smile on his lips.

"'M sayin' dat trolls are better _everyting_," Kinzal chuckled. "An' da day da Darkspear get some paladins is da day our empire rises."

The elf chucked a pillow at the warrior's grinning face. "So long as you crush the Amani," he allowed.

"Of course we'd do dat," the troll said with a disgusted expression. "Amani, Gurubashi, Drakkari- who needs 'em?" he spat.

They lazed in a drowsy afternoon half-slumber after that, with Torril letting his eyes go unfocused as he watched the drifting petals and leaves from the trees and Kinzal idly stroking his tusks as he stared at the wooden ceiling.

"What's fo' dinner tonight? 'M already hungry," Kinzal said perhaps twenty minutes later, arching his back up from the cushions as he yawned.

"I think mother and father have some engagement," the elf answered. _With my betrothed's parents_, was what he didn't add. It never seemed right to think of her when he was with Kinzal. She was kind and gentle and had never done him any wrong, but... "We can ask the kitchen to make what we like. I recall the cook saying he'd recently gotten a few smoked geese," he offered.

"Sounds good," the troll said with a content smile, his eyes drifting shut.

"You can eat the flowers, you know," he added, rolling himself over until he lay flat on his stomach, his head pillowed on his folded arms. "The honeyblossoms. If you're so hungry right now."

Kinzal plucked one up from where it had fallen on a fat pillow and glanced over at him questioningly. "Da whole ting?"

"If you like," Torril said with a shrug. "But what I like to do is just drink the nectar. Here, look. We'll need to find one that hasn't fallen yet- those are the best, always."

Kinzal groaned as he pushed himself up and followed the elf out under the trees, his bare feet crushing fallen petals and strengthening the sweet scent of the flowers in the air.

Torril jumped in place as he tried to reach the blossoms hanging from a drooping branch until Kinzal laughed and plucked one for him, not even needing to stand on his toes to reach it.

"You open it like this," the young paladin-in-training instructed as the warrior leaned close to watch him gently peel back the petals. When the last of them was pushed away, the blossom made a sort of cup around a large, glistening droplet of honey-sweet nectar. "Then you just drink," the elf said with a tentative smile, glancing away as he poured the pale amber liquid onto his tongue.

He watched as Kinzal picked his own blossom to try with, though his large fingers crushed the center of that one and he had to pluck a second. Torril helped that time, his smaller, nimbler fingers opening it up for the troll.

"Tastes as good as it smells," the warrior said as he tried it, and then the rest of the blossom as well. "But ya right... 's better witout da petals. We should bring a few back, I tink. Dessert, eh?"

Kinzal chuckled as he grabbed hold of the branch and shook it, sending a cascade of white flowers down onto himself and the elf.

Torril managed to catch a dozen or so in his arms, but more seemed to have settled in his hair, the ones with sticky nectar seeping out of them clinging to the golden strands. The warrior apologized and began picking them loose while he tried to stifle his grin, his large hands gentle as he combed through the elf's flaxen hair.

And Torril dropped the honeyblossoms in his arms and stood up on the tips of his toes, pushing himself up until he was able to meet Kinzal's lips with his own.

He had kissed before, but never like _this_. Kinzal used his lips, his tongue, his _teeth_. He tasted like honey and smelled like salt and the crushed petals, coppery and tangy and sweet. Torril pressed himself closer to the towering troll, feeling alight with a smoldering flame wherever they touched.

Was it better than the wash of Light that he felt when healing? His head swam as he tried to decide, his thoughts pushed aside one by one until he was left with none at all, and nothing to distract him from the sensation of rough tusks dragging across his skin as Kinzal twisted and turned his head to better take his mouth.

One of his hands had found its way to the troll's abdomen, slipping under leather and cloth to brush against skin. Torril shuddered as his fingertips trailed over the rises and dips of defined muscles, rough scars, and coarse hair. _This is like what Strell does_, he decided, though the realization was not enough to convince him to stop just yet.

But he would. He told himself so, even as he pressed eagerly against the troll's larger frame. He had vows, and though he wasn't breaking them yet, he was leaning against them hard- vows that had no room for kind-hearted troll warriors...

_Just another moment, and then I'll stop_, Torril assured himself as he ran the tip of his tongue along Kinzal's.

He was so enthralled with every touch and taste of the warrior that he never noticed the prying eyes of the gardener, nor saw her turn and flee toward the east wing.

* * *

**Shit will _actually_ begin to go down starting next chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to everyone that's taken the time to review and let me know what you think!**  
**I'm sorry for any typos or weird breaks with established lore, I should have disclaimer'd at the beginning to let you know that I don't know what I'm doing.**

* * *

The city guardswoman took Effira's letter and slipped it into a slender evidence book. "I am sorry you had to see this," she sighed as Effira continued to dab at watery eyes.

"It's just so _morbid_," the elf replied, absently adjusting the pile of pale, disheveled curls atop her head. "Whose blood _is_ it?"

"We cannot know until we consult… specialists," the guard said hesitantly, her metal clad fingers briefly strumming against the gilded helm in the crook of her arm.

_Warlocks_, Strell thought from his shadowy hiding place behind one of Effira's bookcases. They could identify the blood if they had a sample to compare it to, if they had a body...

His brow furrowed at the thought, and for a moment he wondered again if they should have called out to the night patrol as soon as they'd found the bloody letter. Seeing the lieutenant in her gold-chased armor at Effira's door had been the first sign that something was amiss...

"Should I be frightened? Will the guard assign me a protector until this horrible man is revealed?" Effira asked desperately.

The guard shook her head and tried to calm the other elf. "Officially, there is no further recourse for you, miss," she said slowly. In a quieter, more conspiratorial tone, she added, "But the guard captain has asked that I take a week of leave to ensure your safety. I will not wear my guard colors, but I assure you that my partner and I will be ever near."

"Th-thank you," the tear-streaked elf replied, looking extremely grateful.

"As an added precaution, I would advise you avoid traveling alone for now. It would perhaps be safer to move in with a friend, someone whose address this malefactor is not familiar with, if not leave Silvermoon altogether."

"Leave Silvermoon?" Effira said in shock. "I cannot... my business," she muttered. "It would go to pieces without me here, I am certain."

"Have you someone reliable to stay with?" the guardswoman asked.

"Yes… yes, my sister," Effira said absently, her eyes vacant. "She is located in the Goldriver area."

The orange-haired guard nodded once, her long ears bobbing with the action. "I will be patrolling your apartment until then," she said, placing a gauntleted hand gently on the shaking elf's shoulder.

"Will you continue? Once I leave for Trilly's?"

"Yes, miss," she replied with another nod. "If you do not mind, the guard captain would also like to set up surveillance here once you are gone, in case your unsavory suitor decides to attempt a break-in, unawares that you have left," she explained.

"Oh, of course you may," Effira said with a sad little nod. "Just mind the cabinets. All new china, you know." She sobbed into the back of her hand, trying in vain to stifle her cries.

"My name is Valania," the guardswoman said as she helped Effira to stand. "Please, miss Dawnchase, begin making your arrangements and packing your things. You'll have until tomorrow morning to ready yourself, and then my partner and I will come to escort you to your sister's post haste. Until then, we will not allow anyone to enter your home unchecked."

Effira nodded and bit her lip, and even without seeing Strell knew she'd gotten lipstick on her teeth again. It had always been a bad habit of hers.

"Will you be alright spending the night here, miss?" Valania asked. "You will be safe," she assured the shaking woman, "but I would not fault you for being frightened to be alone. Are you in need of company?"

"No, I will be fine for one more evening, thank you," Effira said with a tight voice.

Guardswoman Valania bowed and turned to leave. She stopped just before closing the door. "Thank you for contacting us, miss. It's my honor to ensure your safety," she said stiffly, though her eyes remained soft. "Goodnight, miss Dawnblaze. Lock and bar your doors, and answer to none but me. We will be close."

The door shut with a click, and within seconds Effira had crossed the room to lock and bolt it.

"Strell?" she asked in a whisper.

The rogue slid out from behind the bookcase, approaching her with open arms. "Effi, I'm so sorry," he said in stunned disbelief.

"And here I thought I might be overreacting, as usual, when we called on the guard. Dramatic Effi! Always turning a molehill into a mountain," she shrugged. And then she sobered. "I wish I _had_ been. I wish… I wish I had not dressed so extravagantly in the market," she said despondently. "So gaudy, so gauche. Red lips and jewels. No wonder he saw me in the crowd... This would never have happened to a _lady_, all restrained and refined. It is little wonder that they mock me."

"Nonsense," Strell scoffed, tugging her close and forcing her to look up and meet his eyes. "You have done nothing wrong, Effi. Nothing to deserve the attentions of some twisted killer, certainly. And you needn't worry- the guard is looking after you, and I am here. Captain Niandra may have a stick up her arse, but she's a good guardswoman and she'll catch this villain, just you wait."

"Oh, Strell… I didn't even think- when I told them they could stay here," she said at once, worry drawn across her face. "Where can you stay now? I can give you enough for a few nights at a tavern-"

"No, don't concern yourself," the rogue chided. "It is my trouble. I will call on Lirella and Mistren- I have been meaning to for quite some time," he added with a hint of a smirk.

"You scoundrel," Effira sighed, a hint of good humor returning to her. "Do not spoil their innocence too much, Strell. Now come help me pack, would you? I would like to leave here as soon as possible. I have much to tell Trilly," she lamented.

He followed her into her bedroom, helped lift her traveling trunk onto the bed, and then obediently folded and sorted through clothing as she directed him.

"Effi?" he asked as she handed him stacks of bills and promise notes and deeds to tuck into her trunk.

"Yes, darling?" she asked, the strain in her voice audible.

"I didn't tell you this before," he said haltingly, "Part of me feared I had imagined it all, that it was only really real in my own mind. Or maybe I just _wanted_ to believe that..." He told her of the events at his family's estate that had left him so disturbed- the woman in the white gown, the dark shadow that had dragged her kicking and screaming toward the woods, that had beaten her relentlessly. And the cold gaze that he had felt upon him when he followed…

"Strell," she gasped. "And you did not tell the guard?" she asked urgently.

"My mother forbade it. She… she said I had hallucinated it. Everything returned to normal so quickly," he murmured, his eyes downcast. "Like it had never happened. It... it made more sense that I'd made it up. How else could something so horrible happen there?" He groaned at himself, feeling more and more foolish. "Only Kinzal spoke of it. _He_ didn't just want me to forget…"

"Did you tell him anything? Before you left?" she asked quietly.

"No. No, he'd have realized I was planning something," he said stiffly. "I just… I just left. Not even a goodbye," he muttered, a heavy sense of guilt washing through him.

Effira was silent as she continued to stow her things away in her trunk. At last, as she piled powders and colored pigments on top of the laces and silks, she said, "I think you should go to the guard captain tomorrow. Tell her what you saw. Ask that she not speak of your appearance to your family in exchange."

"She still might turn me over to them anyway," he said with a sigh. "I am not on good terms with her."

Effira nodded, as straightforward as ever. "But this is more important, you understand?" She looked Strell in the eye, unflinching. "Whatever they tried to convince you, however much they tried to pretend otherwise, something happened there that night."

A chill crept up the rogue's spine as a pale figure flashed in his mind, wet with tears and rain.

"Someone is likely dead because of it, and I cannot help but feel that what you saw is connected to… _this_," she sneered, her doll-like face twisting uncharacteristically. "Trust in yourself, Strell," she added with a fond look. "You have a good head on your shoulders, darling, and a good heart in there, too."

She snapped down the lid of the trunk and secured it with a heavy lock so well-crafted that it would have sorely tried the rogue's patience.

She didn't have to ask Strell to stay in her room with her. He wordlessly locked the door and then pulled the heavy trunk in front of the door as a barricade. With half a dozen knives on his person, he laid down beside her and stared up at the ceiling, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his middle.

"Thank you, Strell," she murmured as she buried her face against a cream colored pillow, one large green eye still peering over at him.

"Good night, Effi," he said with a gentle smile.

* * *

They said their goodbyes quickly the next morning, and as lieutenant Valania and the other guardsman arrived at Effira's door to shuttle her to her new home, Strell slipped out to the balcony and dropped onto a nearby rooftop.

He knew the path to the justice building by heart- he had been led there dozens of times, shackled and drunk and in various states of undress. He moved there now with a sense of purpose heavy in his heart.

When he failed to flirt with either of the guards at the entrance, they seemed to realize it as well. Syrel- an easygoing elf with a nasty scar from a burn spread across one cheek- led him down the halls he knew so well, his usual grin exchanged for a concerned half-frown.

"Captain," said the lanky guard as he rapped against the doorframe of her office.

"Yes, Songstrike?"

"A certain Dayborne is returned to us," Syrel said with a little nudge to the rogue.

Guard Captain Niandra turned from the window, her eyes wide as they settled upon Strell. "Dayborne," she sighed. "Your father has been worried sick about you," she said sternly, though there was relief in her eyes as well. "Thank you, Songstrike. I will handle him now."

The guard saluted her and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

"I'm not here about that," he said quickly, already crossing the room toward her. "And I ask that you don't send for my father-"

"You are a lordling gone missing," Niandra said flatly, "and you belong in your father's care, not running amok in my city and getting embroiled in matters of blood-"

"Please, Captain," he said urgently, licking his lips as he reached forward and grabbed her hand, anything to make her stop and listen. "It's about these murders." For murders were what was going on- he'd pieced together that much from the lieutenant's visit, even if there was little gossip of slayings on the streets.

His words made her lips thin into a tense line, and in her silence the rogue recounted his tale of the woman he had seen by the woods of the estate, her bludgeoning and the dark figure responsible for it.

"Yes, I am aware, Dayborne," she said heavily, wrenching her hand away and turning back to the window.

"You know?" Strell asked in surprise. "B-but… my mother tried to sweep it under the rug-"

"Yes, I am aware of that as well," the captain muttered, her face darkening. "Thankfully, your father sent me a letter by messenger the morning after. I am _aware_. It's just that there is little I can _do_," she said as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What do you mean? Can't you go… search for her? For a body? Anything?"

"Dayborne. My hands are tied. My men and women are stretched thin. I cannot reveal all of the details to you, Strell, but know that I am pursuing as many leads as I can."

"It _seems_ like you're not revealing any details at all. To anyone," he said with a touch of irritation, thinking of Effi more than the welfare of the public at large. "You said it yourself- your guards are spread thin, and it's a hard thing to prepare yourself against a threat you know nothing of."

"Take it up with the wellborn council," Niandra said sharply, and Strell knew he'd hit a sore spot. "It's all I can do to encourage the cityfolk to exercise caution without the council breathing down my neck about 'inciting needless panic'. Wait for some lord or lady's child to be the next slaughtered, their tune will change," she said bitterly. A moment later she inhaled sharply, looking abashed. "I didn't mean... I apologize-"

"No, I know how they are," the rogue said with a sympathetic look. "A few urchins and whores disappearing is nothing worth upsetting the public over..."

"Yet the victims aren't prostitutes or smugglers, none that we'd normally chalk up to Arcelia or other nefarious sorts. They are merchants and merchant's daughters, crafters and crafter's sons. Washerwomen and stable boys and would-be rogues... and every one of them sin'dorei." Niandra spared a glance up at Strell, the press of her lips softening just slightly. "No lordlings or young ladies _yet_, but mark my words- he grows bolder."

Strell thought of the crimson letters and grimaced. Just how close had Effi been to receiving a visit from her bloody suitor? "Thank you for sending guards to look after Effira."

Niandra looked up and gave him a small, tired smile. "I should have known you'd hide in her shadow," she said with a soft snort. "And no thanks is required. I was _ecstatic_ to send someone in time. The lieutenant was practically barreling out of here to reach Miss Dawnchase before anything could go awry, and her partner, too. That is _one_ life preserved," the guardswoman muttered, a brief and weighty silence descending. "There are too few of us left for this," she said, her fist clenching.

"How many?" he asked, almost nervous to hear the answer.

"Counting your woman in the woods?" the guard captain asked, the shadows under her eyes pronounced as she glanced up from her desk. "Twelve. Light preserve us, _twelve_ within the last three moons, and that's only the ones we know of. Hawksong and Goldenbreeze pour through the records of disappearances and unclaimed dead even now, but separating this slayer's work from runaways, common slaughter, and Arcelia's dabbling in slave-trade is no small feat." She sighed, her brow creasing as she looked at him. "I've filled your mind with far too much darkness, Strell. I am sorry. I forget how young you are."

"It's not like I'm an innocent," the rogue said with a quick grin to cover his disquiet.

The captain almost seemed to shudder at that, her whole body sagging slightly. "You're not as worldly as you think, Dayborne, and I'd like to keep it that way. You'd be best served by returning home and attending to the rest of your studies. That is my parting counsel to you."

"You're not going to tell my father, are you? You promised," he said quickly, his knee knocking into the chair in front of her desk in his hurry to draw close in supplication.

"I made no oath to you," she said wryly, raising a hand when the young elf began to protest. "But I will indulge you. I will tell your father that I saw you and that you are safe. I… appreciate your candor on this matter of your woods, Dayborne. And I appreciate that when you were confronted with peril, you chose to risk yourself to try and save an innocent."

"Am I cut of a cloth for the guard yet?" he asked with a teasing grin.

The captain smiled benevolently. "A guardsman follows orders, Strell. I fear you will never be suited for such a capacity," she sighed. "Go on. But be careful. This elf slayer..."

The rogue paused at the door, his hand on the bronzed knob that still felt a bit warm from the last hand to turn it.

Niandra worked her mouth for a moment, silent but for her beleaguered sigh. When words did finally come to her, they were thick with some emotion that Strell didn't quite want to place. "Go on, then," the captain said with a quick wave, her attention once again turned to the stacks of reports and records cluttering her desk.

Strell left the justice building feeling more shaken than he had when he arrived, paying no heed to the guards flanking the walls as he left.

He hit the city streets and, for a moment, felt utterly lost. Even with only half the city recovered, Silvermoon sprawled- but nowhere here was _really_ his. He might be tolerated at the haunts of rogues for a night or two, and the taverns and whorehouses would certainly welcome him so long as he had coin, but nothing offered the same comfort as his closest friend's abode had.

Strell plodded out a path through the broad, sunlit venues, his knapsack heavy on his back. A handful of little urchins recognized him when he passed by the entrance to the Red Row, but he shook his head and they looked to other passersby for coppers instead.

He wandered to the Bazaar, all a-clamor with merchants and farmers selling from stands and carts pulled by stout hawkstriders, half considering buying a pot of the fried vegetables or soup that street vendors sold. Orcish was mingled with Thalassian as adventurers of all sorts of repute resupplied or sold off their spoils, and above it all the sweet aromas of spice and fresh produce blended in the air…

A stand with dozens of woven baskets, each filled with a different array of tea leaves, dried flower buds, and whole spices drew him in for the longest time, the simple smells proving to be a surprising comfort to the elf. But it was at a fruit seller's stall two spaces over that he heard a familiar voice feebly haggling over a price and truly perked up.

"Larilla," Strell said exuberantly, spying the small elven woman holding a basket containing a meager selection of vegetables.

She set the bundle of herbs back down and thanked the disgruntled seller before turning to the rogue. "It's good to see you, ser!" the freckled elf said bashfully as she smoothed out her plain dress with the tattered hem. "It feels like it's been forever."

"It does," he agreed, an impish smile lighting up his face. Seeing her made him feel lighter, as if the bloodstained letter and murders and woman in white were all part of some bad dream. But… they were not, and he sobered as he took her gently by the elbow and pulled her to the side of a stall, where it was marginally more quiet. "Larilla, there have been disappearances as of late, killings-"

"Oh, isn't it terrifying?" she said at once, her stubby fingernails immediately at her mouth.

"You know, then?"

"Yes, but… it is such an odd thing, ser, as though no one wishes to speak of it. I mean, _that_ isn't odd," she added quickly. "Who would desire to talk of something so dreadful? But it is almost as though we are not to be reminded of it."

"Yes," the rogue agreed, thinking back to the captain's comment about the council. "You know to be cautious? How is Mistren? Are you both still well?"

"Yes, of course, ser. We fixed the locks for our windows and even bought," she leaned in close to whisper, "a _knife_. The kind for killing, not cooking," she explained further, looking deadly serious.

"Oh," the rogue replied, his brows raised. "Yes, that is… that's good. I meant to ask as well- I had promised Mistren I would visit, but being in between residences at the moment... I know it's terribly rude and I hate to impose, but would it be possible for me to-"

"To stay with us? Strell Dayborne, stay with us?" she asked gleefully, bouncing in place. "Yes, please do. It is the least we can do to repay you for all that you have done for us over the months."

He smiled gratefully and adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder. "I seem to recall your brother mentioning something about having your renowned stew when we last spoke," the rogue added as he picked a few coins from a pocket and flipped them through his fingers. "Should this suffice to buy all you need?"

Larilla tried not to smile as she took the gold from him and tucked it inside her dress. "Enough for bread, too!" she said with a little nod. "Thank you, Strell. I… we've been… well, you needn't wait on me here- I'll be another half hour at the butcher and the only milk around time of day is outside the gate. You know where the apartment is," she said with a little bow. "There is an extra key. Hidden," she said, leaning in again. "Under the flowerbox to the right of the door."

He was still smiling as they parted ways, his heavy bag feeling less burdensome as he traced the familiar route to their small abode. In spite of all the recent troubles and blighted mysteries, there was comfort in the easy acceptance of the twins. One of their homecooked meals had a great deal of appeal as well; the pair was as skilled in the kitchen as they were delightfully awkward in bed. Strell had only ever had one stew in all his life that left him scraping his bowl for more- and Larilla and Mistren guarded the family recipe with a dedication that surprised him, even going so far as to shoo him from the kitchen as they worked.

_They would do well to be rid of this_, the rogue thought as he fished the extra key out from under a long terra cotta box filled with sun-bleached soil. A few scraggly weeds and hardy blooms stood stubbornly there, clinging on despite an obvious lack of attention. He tucked the key into his vest and decided he'd strongly encourage them to rethink hiding it two feet from the entrance.

The rogue unlocked the door and twisted the knob slowly, a small part of him genuinely concerned that the twins might be a little on edge and perhaps a bit eager to put their 'killing knife' to use.

"It's Strell," he called as he pushed the door open, even cautiously rapping on the frame. "Don't stab me, please."

He was greeted with silence.

Strell shut the door behind him and tossed his things onto the worn divan by the door, then walked to the middle of the cramped area that served both as a kitchen and a living room, his boots making quiet thuds against the wooden floor. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he spotted the male elf's worn shoes lying by the door.

"Mistren?" He was definitely home, likely indulging in an afternoon nap in between shifts. Strell grinned impishly at the thought.

Mistren was a heavy sleeper, the very opposite of his sister, and very prone to slumbering in incredibly awkward positions- Strell half hoped to find him upside down and naked, as he had the first time he had surprised the twins with a late night visit. His devilish joy that night had quickly evaporated when he found that the pretty young elf couldn't be roused from his slumber whatsoever and Strell had been left to tend to himself alone in their bathroom instead.

"Mistren?" the rogue called again as he headed down the dim hallway. He'd feel like a cretin for intruding on their bedroom if the other elf wasn't here after all, but the rogue groaned and pushed onward. He was feeling upbeat for the first time since the letter, and he'd be damned if he was going to waste the moment sitting out on the divan, bored out of his mind.

If Mistren wasn't drowsing _too_ hard, they might have time for at least a little nuzzling under the covers before Larilla got back and cooking began… and if he was well and truly unconscious, Strell might at least have a bit of fun inking spiders onto his face or building another fortress of pillows around him.

He grinned as he knocked rapidly on the bedroom door, more out of formality than actual purpose; if Mistren _was_ slumbering on the other side, there was no way he'd hear it through his thick cloud of sleep. A _warhorn_ wouldn't wake the fluffy-haired elf once he started dreaming.

"Mistren," he sighed as he creaked the door open, immediately catching sight of the younger elf sprawled out across his unmade bed with his black tunic hiked up and his belt half-off. "Hibernating _bears_ sleep less, you vexing elf."

Strell frowned, cocking his head as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. He could tell that something didn't quite fit here, though what it was...

No, it _wasn't_ right. Not with the angle of his arm in relation to his body. Not the strange color of Mistren's bedspread. Not where his head was, too far to the left, at too sharp of an angle-

Strell's stomach suddenly flopped and turned as his mind at last fit the pieces together, as he finally made sense of what his eyes had seen from the start.

His head- _Mistren's head_, a voice in his mind screamed shrilly- was not attached, not like it should be. It was cut open at the base of his neck and jerked to the side, held onto his body by only the slenderest sliver of flesh and skin. Under his body was a stain that nearly stretched the length of his bed, the blood having turned an unsightly brown on the young elf's green sheets.

Strell rounded the bed, though he couldn't say what moved him to do so, and was met with the sight of jagged meat and glistening white bone and much too much blood. He shook his head, but the rogue couldn't manage to tear his eyes from the gore- he had seen Mistren just a week ago. Or was it less than that? More?

He had wanted to take the gentle blond in his arms, then. Now he recoiled from the elf, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he retreated until his back hit the dresser and sent a lamp toppling to the floor. It _was_ Mistren but it _wasn't_- it was pieces of a person, remnants, no spirit left at all.

Strell felt his mouth twist as he worked to contain a wail, or a retch, or some curse. Did he cry for the friend and sometimes-lover he'd lost, or swear vengeance, or turn from the ruin of his corpse? He didn't know, so he bit down on the next choked noise that tried to escape.

Mistren had been working a second job for extra gold and had just bought a knife to protect himself and his sister, had hidden their key under the bottom of a pot and thought himself safe. Whatever was giving Strell the strength to bear it all cracked and broke; he slid to the floor and vomited until his vision blurred and his chest _ached_, and even then it wasn't enough.

* * *

As far as he could recall, Niandra had been exceedingly kind to him. He had gotten up at some point and tried to put Mistren's head right, which could technically be considered tampering with a body, but she hadn't even had put him in irons when the guards showed up.

Strell still didn't know what could have possessed him to do such a thing. You couldn't put someone's head back on after it had been sawed off. It didn't even _fit_, anyway. The meat and bone was all too mangled, and even when he'd gotten everything lined up there had still been that angry, uneven seam across his throat, and that was when he had sat back down and cried until Larilla showed up and the guards eventually came.

Niandra had sent a messenger for his father. Strell couldn't bother to feel upset about that, not with Mistren…

_Dead_ was the word he didn't want to say. People died in Scourge invasions, in far off lands like Draenor and Northrend, in the ugly parts of Silvermoon, like Murder Row. But elves like Mistren didn't wind up beheaded in their own beds- he had been arranging flowers and cleaning tables, not thieving and fencing goods. He should never have died.

Niandra promised she would have Larilla watched as well- closely watched, as she was to be moved into the guard's barracks for lack of a safer place to go. Strell took the captain's word for it; he couldn't speak to the girl, couldn't see her without imagining her neck torn asunder, too. The brief looks he'd exchanged with Larilla convinced him that she didn't want much part of him, either.

Here, there- places seemed to blur together, the rides in between passing in silences that left Strell's mind to inevitably wander back to the apartment that was empty now, cleaned of all traces of the boy who'd been slain in his bed.

By now he was ash, probably, and more than once the rogue had started to choke a little as he wondered if there were bits of Mistren floating down on the breeze from the hill where the funeral pyres were lit.

As for his homecoming, there was little that Strell remembered later. His father had been there, certainly, but he didn't think his mother or brother had helped guide him back upstairs. However, he _did_ recall with disturbing clarity that Kinzal was not a part of it.

The lack of Kinzal worried him, frightened him a bit, if he could be honest with himself, though the others mattered less. The troll had stayed by his side during the dark spell after his fall from the window, and he had taken that comfort for granted. Now there was no Kinzal, no sleeping draught, no respite at all. The rogue found himself questioning the value of many things as he laid abed now, found himself feeling along his own throat and thinking of his training and how easily muscle and tendon there could be cut. Bone was harder, but you needn't sever bone to kill... or to die.

Strell didn't sleep that first night, instead staring blankly at the ceiling with one hand clasped protectively over his throat. When summoned for breakfast come morning, he moved like a shade, disjointed and ghostly light as he made his way to the dining room. The hallway was wallpapered in a rich red with an overlying pattern of golden flowers, the chandeliers touched with red gems, the poppies and roses in the vases, all red.

_Red, red, red. Why is everything__red__?_ the elf thought despondently as he seated himself at the table and unfolded his napkin in his lap. Crimson and maroon and vermillion, all put blood fresh in his mind.

He nibbled on dry, toasted bread but left the table abruptly when Torril made to pass him a jar of berry jam, sudden nausea overtaking him.

Strell quickly discovered that the sight of meat sickened him as well. His father planned meals of only vegetables and grains when he had to be in attendance, and the young elf could at least manage a dozen or so bites of squash and barley stew. After a few days, though, his mother protested at the coddling- the chef had roasted a small pig at her behest, and Strell vomited across the table when the stout old elf had set to carving it in front of them.

He began to take meals in his room after that, which he was grateful for. Here he could pick at his food for hours as he pleased, and none of it with the gristle and bone that made him see again the twisted cords of flesh that had once been part of his friend.

And here he could pine for his lost keeper without gaunt, sad-eyed Torril watching him, haunting him as surely as any ghost. He didn't need his brother's silent reminder of what was lost- his own guilt was enough to plague him, a snide voice reminding the rogue that he had left the troll behind first, had forgotten him as soon as other distractions arose. But for all that he berated himself, Strell missed Kinzal even if he had no right to. He missed him with a ferocity that had left him to sob into his pillow for hours at a time, for all the good that did.

Torril came to him the third day after Strell's return to confess, his eyes rimmed with red and his face drawn.

"I'm so sorry, brother," he cried as he knelt next to the bed where Strell sat cocooned in blankets. "It was my fault, all of it- I kissed him. _I_ kissed _him_ and a servant saw and mother had him gone before dawn. I did not even see him leave…"

Strell initially found it hard to muster pity for his brother. So much of his sadness was still tied up with Mistren- and with himself, in truth. But he managed a sliver and hugged Torril close, pulling him into his bed as he sobbed about the hours they'd spent together, talking and sparring and exploring the grounds. His guilt seemed immense, so big that it had swallowed his sibling up.

"I thought… he'd be happier," the paladin-in-training said in between sniffs and stifled cries. "And me, too. I didn't… I didn't m-mean to ruin anything," he swore as he buried his face against Strell's chest and neck and hid from everything around him.

And as the rogue stroked his older brother's flaxen hair until he quieted and drifted into fitful sleep, he wondered what this could mean. The paladin had made a play for his heart only to have it burn him as well as Kinzal- it was possible that he'd never chance on love again after such an experience, and that would be as saddening as anything else that had happened in these last few weeks.

After that night, Torril took to following Strell around nearly anytime he wasn't curled piteously on his bed, though they both made for poor company. With his training and studies put aside, the paladin seemed like a shade of himself, barely a thing to keep him from fading into the background. His utter silence didn't help in that regard, either.

Strell knew he was little better. Sullen and lethargic, he could feel how starkly changed he was from only a month ago, a week. But when he saw the tendons in his hands began to stand out against his sallow skin, the hollows forming in his knuckles and collar and cheeks, he panicked. Irrational, he knew, but he couldn't help but think that a decently thick layer of flesh between skin and sinew might aid in putting thoughts of certain skeletons to rest.

He was still rattled, but he ate a little better; Torril still followed him like a shadow, a daytime ghost to mirror the ones that found him at night, but Strell felt a little more assured with him at his side now, heartened by his presence. It was terrible that _this_ was what brought them back together, gave them common cause... but what was there to do but make the best of it?

On the eleventh day after his return, Strell's senses returned to him.

At least, that was how it _felt_. He woke from another uneasy night of visits from the woman in white and Mistren with a vigor that surprised him. The deceased elf had taken to ambling through the woods just beyond his reach, laughing and singing as he darted across Strell's bloody path toward the woman, his head swinging and flopping from the narrow band of skin and tissue that tethered it to his neck.

He was always a little nauseous when he awoke after that dream, but on this morning he felt as though a sickness had passed. He didn't want to lie in bed and relive the past or sleep until day and night became an indistinguishable blur. A part of him would always be wretchedly sad for Mistren, just as a part of him had changed when he laid eyes on his body pieces, but he wrapped that bit of him tight, as he would have bandaged a wound, and tried to forget, if only for a little while. He just needed... he needed...

"Kinzal," he sighed as he pushed his blankets off, wrinkling his nose at the smell of musty air and stale night sweat.

The troll was gone, but he might yet be in the city, trying futilely to find honest work. Strell had left him behind and few things he regretted more... he would not sit and weep as his last chance passed him by.

He bathed for the first time in days, scrubbing himself raw and pointedly ignoring his gaunt reflection in the full-length mirror as he toweled off. He dressed as nobly as he could, though there was nothing to be done for his slightly wasted appearance, and barged into the study in _her_ wing of the house.

"Hire him back."

Yvine set down her long fountain pen and considered him with a cold smile, appearing not the slightest bit shocked at his sudden arrival. "So your brute can force himself upon your brother again? I think not."

"Kinzal did no such thing. Torril would tell you that himself were he not sobbing over it up in his room." She frowned, and he knew he had her there. Her firstborn was her fondest treasure, and she was made unhappy by his distress. "He takes fewer meals, he forgoes his training. He hasn't spoken a word since he cried to me about it all. Soon enough, people will talk. He blames himself for Kinzal being dismissed," the rogue stated evenly.

"And you would have me rehire the troll purely out of consideration for Torril's feelings," she said in low accusation.

"It is as much for me as it is for him," Strell admitted. "And for _Kinzal_. He does not deserve your ire, nor the loss of a well paying job well away from Northrend."

"Your troll deserves nothing but a boat back to his hut." His mother's plum-painted lips drew back in a brief sneer and she turned her head to stare into the hearth instead. He saw the indecision in her eyes before she could hide it, though, and the worry for Torril that made her doubt.

"Perhaps when I next leave, Torril will wish to accompany me." His mother's mouth tightened and Strell had to stifle a smile. It was a bluff, but what was important was her uncertainty. She had not expected her golden son to weep through dinners and shun his studies for days on end, and now the fear of losing him was strong.

"If the troll remains in the city, I might consider it," she said as she scratched something onto a slip of parchment and tucked it into a drawer. "As ineffectual as he was at keeping you from shaming us, he at least managed to keep you out of my sight."

Strell grinned.

* * *

"Torril. Torril, _get up_," he groaned, strands of long, dark hair falling into his face as he struggled to push his brother up.

The paladin in training lurched to his feet on Strell's third plea, his tall frame proving startlingly narrow. Food seemed to have lost its savor for him in the last two weeks, and between that and the lack of training, his muscular body had begun to whither.

Torril's eyes met his brother's questioningly, though his interest seemed minute.

"Do you want to go find Kinzal or not? Mind you, I don't _need_ you to come with me," Strell said as he buckled his belt and checked his sheaths for their daggers.

The blond elf perked up at that, however slightly. He looked doubtful, but nonetheless he set to dressing himself in silvery-threaded cottons and fine, light mail.

They left under the curious, watchful gazes of the servants and gardeners. As Strell readied his favorite hawkstrider- an ill-tempered but affectionate bird with a tendency to nip on ears- he couldn't help but wonder which of them had flown to his mother like some winged little imp, eager to tell her of some indiscretion on the part of her beloved son. Torril obviously placed all of the blame for the troll's departure solely on himself, but Strell was a bit more generous.

The girl Kinzal had been helping to read handed the reins to him, and the rogue kept his expression cool and blank as he studied her. _Not her,_ he decided after a moment. He hadn't suspected her, not truly, but his mother had a way of turning even decent elves into her creatures. But the stable girl- Tarana, he remembered- looked as grim as the brothers, her small mouth tight as she watched them mount.

Strell nodded a goodbye to her as he and Torril began to trot away. He didn't miss the faint smile she gave them even as she crossed her arms and squared her shoulders.

"Where to look, where to look," the black-haired elf muttered as they got underway. He chanced a brief glance at his silent companion and sighed when he found the paladin gazing vacantly at the gravel of the road ahead.

"Torril… will you at least tell him 'hello' when we find him? He might come to think you hate him otherwise," he said coaxingly. At home, Torril's vigilant silence didn't seem so out of place among their dim rooms and the general atmosphere of disappointment, but under the sweeping skies and towering branches… it wasn't like the paladin to pass up an opportunity to talk to him out of their mother's sight.

The blond remained mute, his only response being a visible tightening of his jaw.

"Very well. Ajax, no, no biting Ody," Strell snapped, whapping his hawkstrider on the side of its winding neck as he made to tug out more of Torril's mount's feathers. The raven-black bird beneath him squawked in outrage before heeding its rider's sharp tug of the reins and turning back to the road, still clacking its beak irately.

"We should start in the inns and taverns by the main gate first," the rogue said with a careful look at his brother. _Inns and taverns first, and brothels… hopefully not at all,_ the brunet thought with a tinge of anxiety. The last thing he needed Torril seeing was Kinzal tangled in some whore's sheets- he'd be bringing the paladin back home more out of sorts than when he'd left with him. "They're the most accommodating to adventuring sorts. I imagine we'll be sorting through quite a few trolls, though."

If he had hoped to perk up his brother, the attempt failed. Strell chided himself and decided to bite his tongue for the rest of the ride to the city. _Trolls_ didn't interest Torril- Kinzal did.

Strell tried not to think about the awkward position that left him in. He assured himself repeatedly that he was in need of Kinzal's companionship more than anything else, and that any affection the troll held for his brother was not his concern. He could watch them grow close... could probably assist the pair, even, if they _did_ pursue anything. Light knew Torril would need the help.

The rogue told himself that his strictly physical attraction to the troll was perfectly understandable- any curious young elf would feel the same after being in the hulking troll's company for an extended period of time. _Fel, even Torril-the-blushing-virgin got enticed- how can anyone blame _me_? _No, what he felt was just unavoidable lust, easily pushed to the side now that Kinzal had made his preference clear. It was done, settled, and Strell would be happy just to have the troll back for the sake of his sanity, yet...

Yet as much as he wanted to deny it, and as much he hated himself for it, the elf knew that he still harbored a hope that somehow-

_No,_ he told himself sharply, nearly shaking his head as he clamped down on any little whisperings before they could start. This was not the time- and there would never be a time, because Kinzal had already chosen and it was _Torril_ that won out, as his brother often did. He couldn't fault the troll for that, nor his brother, but...

But then there was the way the warrior spoke to him, his kindnesses during his recovery from the woods, how he teased and joked, his undeniable arousal that night in his room. _He was willing to kiss your brother and lose his job, but he turned _you_ away_, something inside reminded him, making the elf swallow thickly.

The rogue turned in his heels and goaded his hawkstrider along faster, a swell of relief filling him as Silvermoon's great walls came into sight. He didn't like where his thoughts went in all of this silence, not at all.

* * *

There weren't quite as many trolls as he'd thought there would be- handsy orcs and leering undead aplenty, which he worked quickly to steer Torril away from, but few trolls, and even fewer of them were towering, redheaded, and mohawked.

The bartenders and innkeeps were quick to wave him off when they saw the pair of elves weren't going to be customers, turning instead to cater to the boisterous hunters, warriors, and shaman that filled every common room of each establishment.

"Come on, Torril," Strell muttered, pulling the collar of his cloak higher around his neck as he tugged his brother toward the door. Three taverns so far had been a wasted effort.

"Ey, mon," a thickly trollish voice said just as his fingers brushed the handle. The rogue glanced up, puzzled by the voice that reminded him so strongly of Kinzal yet wasn't.

He met the amber-eyed gaze of a female troll languidly stretched out by the fireplace, her golden-yellow braids piled high atop her head in a fashion that called Effi to mind. She smiled and beckoned him closer, and with a wary glance over his shoulder and a reassuring pat on Torril's arm, the rogue complied.

"Hello," he greeted as he found a place beside her on the area of plush rugs before the hearth. Blue skin tinted warm by the firelight was bared lasciviously, her cotton robes falling open to show a generous portion of her chest. "Who are you?" he asked, squinting slightly.

"A troll," she said, her voice low and husky. "I hear ya be lookin' for one. Normally I'd crack a twiggy lil' elf like you in half, but between da two of ya…" she pondered, her tongue tracing over pointed canines as she studied both of them intently.

"Ah, no," Strell said as gently but swiftly as possible, already feeling Torril shifting nervously behind him. "We're looking for a specific troll. A warrior that was staying at our house for a while."

"Oh," the young troll woman said, a disappointed frown curving her pierced lips. She sat up, abandoning her sultry sprawl for a hunched crouch. "Who ya be seekin'?"

"Kinzal… ah, just Kinzal, I guess," the rogue shrugged, wondering briefly at the trolls' lack of surnames.

"Kinzal?" The troll grinned suddenly, her sharp eyes alight. "Whatcha want dat ol' grump for?"

"You know him?" the elf asked eagerly.

"My muddah's cousin," she answered, her chin lifting a little. Suddenly her expression fell, replaced by something more apprehensive. "Ey, don' go tellin' him about anyting, okay?" She seemed a little shy and self-conscious as she grabbed up her staff and pulled her robes around her more securely.

"Of course," Strell agreed. He knew that feeling well enough to sympathize. "Have you seen him at all lately? We're hoping to hire him again."

The troll priest blushed darkly and glanced away. "I heard he was stayin' at dat other inn, so I came here… 'm not hidin', I just… it's my first time away from Orgrimmar, no family snoopin' around," she explained nervously. Then she pushed air from her noise with a quiet snort, her frown becoming more disgruntled. "But den, dere's _always _family around. Even here."

A month ago, Strell would have bought her a drink and complained of his own family with her. But he didn't have time to commiserate with Kinzal _so close_. "What other inn? Do you know the name?"

"Sometin' about a dragon," she said with a shrug. "Or was it two dragons?"

"The Three Dragons," Strell supplied for her, already bouncing to his feet.

She was amused at his exuberance, cocking her head at him as she bared her small tusks in a smile. "An' if I should come up at all," she said with a wary glint in her eye, "I was prayin' ta da loa when ya saw me. Got it, elf?"

"Even if he does catch wind about your... experiences here, I've got enough dirt on him to make him think twice about telling your mother anything," he promised as he gathered up Torril. The troll grinned and nodded, her hungry gaze already shifting away to a ragged young elf that had just wandered up to the bar.

"Thanks!" Strell called over his shoulder as he ushered the paladin out into the dark, nearly tripping over his brother's heels in his hurry.

Torril's mail clicked and clanked lightly as they jogged the short distance to the inn with the rounded sign featuring three red dragons' heads, their arched necks forming a circle. Inside the common area it was dim and smoky, with the murmur of adventurers exchanging insults and stories as they drank and ate underlying it.

Strell scanned the faces at each table, not caring if the patrons took offense at his stares. Orcs with yellowed tusks and mildewing undead, shaggy-furred tauren and a handful of more worldly elves mixed in... but no blue-skinned trolls.

The elf took his brother by the arm and ducked behind the protruding fireplace to check the emptier tables in the back. It was dimmer and quieter here, each of the round tables occupied by just one or two customers. At one an orcish mage whispered with an elvish one- or at least Strell had _thought_ they were mages before one relit a guttered candle on their table with a spark of fel green flame. Another table was occupied solely by a tauren that was methodically sharpening a set of hunting knives. And at the next table...

A blue-skinned troll with arms wrapped in copper and a crest of coarse red hair that brushed elvish ceilings when he stood, his small, sharp eyes already on the pair of haggard elves. Strell's relief when he finally laid eyes on Kinzal must have been visible, but it seemed it was their changed appearances that garnered more attention from the troll.

"Ya both look like dead walkin'," Kinzal said by way of greeting. Amber eyes were lined with concern for the gaunt rogue and the tight-lipped paladin as he set down his mug and used his feet to scoot two chairs out for them. "What are ya doin' here?" he asked in a low hiss, his gaze shifting to the grizzled veterans and foolhardy beginners that populated the bar and commons of the inn.

"We're here to bring you back," Strell answered as if it was obvious. Then he repeated the words to himself in his head and shrugged weakly, the entire endeavor suddenly feeling feeble and small. And he was tired- more tired than he realized. He took his seat heavily and gratefully accepted the troll's mug when it was slid over to him- dark beer, bitterer than Strell liked it, but he swigged down a mouthful nonetheless.

"Bring me back," Kinzal repeated, his voice flat and skeptical. The troll tapped his large fingers on the grimy wooden tabletop, sparing one remorseful, slightly curious glance at the paladin before looking back to Strell. "An'… what? Keep me hidden in ya closets? Bring me scraps ta eat?" he asked in a rough, scratchy voice.

"No," the rogue replied at once. "Back as a… a guardian," he said carefully, "although I don't think our mother will permit you and Torril to occupy so much as the same floor together," he added with a wince.

Kinzal swallowed as he shifted his sights to the blond elf, his brow creasing. "Ser Torril, I… I understand if ya be upset wit' me, an' I wouldn' blame ya at all ta oppose dis," he said with a dejected hang of his head.

There were a few long seconds of silence in which Strell's gaze darted back and forth between the other two at the table. Kinzal sat hunched, looking as though he anticipated a diatribe on his indecency; the blond elf's lips were still pressed tightly together, his hands folded in his lap and his ears drooping.

"Torril isn't speaking," Strell explained hesitantly, leaning forward to catch his brother's eye. Kinzal spared him a curious glance and then turned back to the other elf, obviously lost for words.

"I will," the paladin said in a voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks reddening at both of their stares, "when I can be certain my words and actions will harm none." And then he was silent again, his pale lips sealed tight and his face as impassive a she could make it.

"Torril, you kissed someone. A rather _handsome_ someone," the rogue said with an approving gesture to the warrior, who shrugged at the compliment. "That is no crime so grave as to warrant a vow of silence," Strell told him softly.

Kinzal let out a long, troubled sigh and dragged his chair a little closer to the paladin's. "I appreciate dat ya came here wit' Strell ta get me."

Torril nodded once, his eyes set straight ahead.

"An' I don' blame ya at all, if dat's how ya be tinkin'," the troll said heavily. "But I shoulda... I shoulda kept my head. 'M sorry, Ser Torril. Didn' mean for all dis ta happen. Neither of us did." Kinzal let his head tip back and groaned. "No loa gave me da strength for dis," he said under his breath, shaking his head. "I wasn' ready for ya elves." Even Torril managed a ghost of a smile at that.

Strell sighed and rapped his knuckles against the wooden table as he surveyed the sullen paladin and the slightly drunk troll before him. "Well, Torril has no objection to your return and neither do I. You'll receive three-quarters of what you were originally paid," the rogue informed him with a slight grimace, "but if it's any consolation, they've more or less given up on me. No pressures to teach me anything or keep me in line, really. Does all that sound… acceptable to you?" he asked awkwardly as Torril excused himself with a bow and headed outside to ready their mounts.

Kinzal's red fan of hair bobbed as he nodded. "Ain' home. Ain' even better den a decent inn, ta be honest," the troll said with a shrug of his wide shoulders, "but I… well, I don' exactly know anyone else in dis place," he said quickly. "An' I suppose I missed ya sorry ass," he added to Strell, his lip curling slightly. "Though I dunno why ya come afta me now- didn' ya run _away_ from me couple weeks back?" the troll asked with a little irritation.

The rogue bit lightly on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry about that," he said to the warrior. "I am, really. I… I regret that I ever left. A-and things change," he added as he stood and checked the clasp on his cloak. "I won't be running again."

The troll's brow furrowed as he followed the elf through the inn and out into the night, but he said nothing.

They found Torril waiting by the stables, the two hawkstriders tied to a post while he gingerly held Loktak's reins. The red-scaled raptor seemed more concerned with sniffing and snuffling the paladin's limp blond locks than greeting its rider, though it did finally chirp in response to a quick kiss on the nose from the troll.

Kinzal thanked Torril and heaved himself up onto Loktak's back, groaning as he settled into the saddle.

Strell slipped atop Ajax and gathered up the reins to ride, smiling softly as he caught sight of Torril's relieved expression. "So, ser troll," the rogue said playfully, "are you excited to see the Dayborne estate once again?"

The troll sighed triedly. "I did miss da beds. Ya really come ta appreciate a nice, clean bed afta ya find... well, I won' tell ya what I foun' in mah sheets," he said darkly. After a moment, though, apparently unable to resist sharing the terrible news, he added, "It was an imp. Dere was a dead imp in da bed an' it was sticky."

"Huh, I thought the Three Dragons wasn't _that kind_ of inn anymore," Strell murmured ponderously, a sly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as the rogue pressed his heels into his hawkstrider's sides and led the trio out onto the cobbled city streets.

"Shut up," the troll laughed, his voice low and gruff and generally pleasing to Strell's ears. "Wasn' at da Dragons anyway- some place called Da Whisperin' Sista. Like fel I be stayin' dere afta peelin' back da blankets an' findin' dat," he said with a little shudder.

Torril was shaking his head and blushing all the way up his neck and to the tips of his ears; Strell was still laughing too hard to speak. It felt good, despite the ache it left in his cheeks- and he realized he hadn't laughed like that in far too long.

"What?" the troll asked in a suspicious growl, his gaze shifting to the elves on each side of him as the three rode abreast through the great gates and wards of Silvermoon.

"That's... oh, Light, how did you pick that place?" the rogue asked as he wiped the corners of his eyes. "It's always been for the... the more experimental," he said carefully. "The proprietor is notorious for being a warlock that lets his demons get very involved with the business. Not stuff for the weak of heart... or the soft of flesh-"

"Alrigh', alrigh'," the warrior interrupted, his own cheeks flushing rich purple.

"I've never seen you so flustered," Strell said amusedly. _Except for the time I was on top of you_, he thought before he could stop himself. He didn't want to think it, just as he didn't want to think that the troll cut a handsome, intimidating figure in his full plate, especially under the dim light cast by the blue and yellow lanterns lining the roadway.

"'M not flustered," Kinzal insisted, his large hands squeezing tight around Loktak's reins.

"And here I'd thought we'd found your weakness was sin'dorei..." He tutted and shook his head. "_Demons_. Even I think that's a little much."

"Dere were no signs," the troll said defensively, "an' _you_," he added, jabbing a finger in the rogue's direction, "be da one needin' ta take a vow of silence."

Strell shrugged and smiled blandly, realizing how sorely he'd missed teasing and talking. "Am I striking too close to the truth for your liking, ser troll?"

Kinzal was muttering about 'striking _someting_' when Torril edged his hawkstrider up ahead of theirs, Ody's white-lavender plumage swishing in front of the troll and the other elf as he took the lead. The blond glanced back over his shoulder and looked at the both of them expectantly.

"Are we moving too slowly for Torril?" Strell asked with cautious optimism. He'd half expected his brother to trudge along the entire way in silence, his vacant gaze set far ahead of them as he followed blindly.

There was a long moment of silence, stretched out as the rogue and the warrior shared a hopeful look.

The blond elf smiled ruefully and turned back, shaking his head slightly. "There was a time that you'd always race me home from here," he said quietly, nodding in the direction of a thick tree-trunk long ago split by lightning.

It was a bit difficult to make out by faint moonlight and the dim glow of the lanterns, but Strell saw that it was indeed the tree they'd always used as a marker for when home grew near and the perfect starting point for a race- not too long to tax the hawkstriders while still allowing them a good run. "So there was," Strell agreed as they ambled past the old tree. "There was _also_ a time that you broke your leg when you fell while jumping the creek-"

"At least I never cried when I lost," Torril said smartly. He gave his brother a knowing look then turned back around in the saddle.

Strell pressed his lips together, briefly surprised by the sudden sass. "I think I prefer you being silent," he muttered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he noticed Kinzal watching the pair of them amusedly. He turned in his heels and goaded Ajax faster, his hawkstrider squawking shrilly as it nipped at Ody's white-lavender tailfeathers. "Last one to the stables has to muck the stalls. For a week," he added with a devilish smirk. "Kinzal?" he asked, looking expectantly to the troll.

Red hair swayed as the warrior shook his head. "I tink I'mma stay outta dis grudge match. Go on, I be followin' in case ya fall off an' bump ya little heads on da groun'," he said with a little wave.

Strell gave Ajax more rein as he sized up his brother- it had been years since they'd done this, and even more since they'd dared to race at night. Ody was a stubby-legged, stout bird, bred to hold even a plate-clad elf, yet he still managed to hold his own against Strell's slim, swift mount.

But win or lose, it was worth seeing Torril's awkward smile again and hearing his nervous laugh. They'd stopped racing after he'd broken his leg; their mother had been furious, so cross that she'd threatened to have the stables cleared out entirely. It heartened Strell to see him ready to try again, even knowing what ire it could bring...

The dark-haired elf grinned to himself as Kinzal readied to give them the signal, putting his weight in the stirrups as he lifted himself lightly off the saddle. He glanced over and saw Torril doing the same, watching and copying his stance. His brother quickly flushed dark with embarrassment and began to sit back down in the saddle, but Strell just laughed and gave him a little nod.

"No, like before. There you go, now lean forward more- but not _too_ forward, or we'll be fishing you from the creek," he advised just before the troll dropped his hand and their hawkstriders burst into a gallop.

Torril and Ody were still at his side when they crested the second hill, blond hair and pale feathers whipping back behind them- he might have been laughing, too, or that could have just been the cold whistling of the wind past Strell's ears. It was odd that something they had not done in a dozen years was what made him feel normal for the first time in months, as if they were still the companions in mischief they had been in their youngest years.

_Maybe... we are again?_ he wondered as he saw the paladin trying to make a shortcut through a thicket to their left, looking a great deal less ashen and hollow as he bounded between thin saplings, whistling and bird-calling and grinning unabashedly. Strell hoped so. He could live without a great many things if he had his brother and Kinzal both by his side- he was convinced of it.

The rogue shouted encouragement to Ajax, fighting against the noise of the wind and the tight feeling in his own throat. He was a finicky and tempestuous bird, but he hated losing almost as much as Strell did; the elf let the hawkstrider have his head and simply held on for the ride, trusting his mount to remember the swiftest course back to the stables.

Strell let out a noise that was a mix between a laugh and a sigh as they leapt cleanly over a half-rotted log lying across the trail- it had been a _very_ long time since he had been eager to return home.

* * *

**ASAUSUUHFHGJLKJ  
****The good news is that I've pretty much finished the sex scene for the next chap, so you can all look forward to that awkward reading experience soon.  
I'm estimating about one chapter of love-triangle BS and romance stuff before plot kicks back in and fictional lives get ruined.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey and sorry for the **_**extremely**_** long gap between updates. I had a really difficult time getting anything out for this (and for WLDS, unfortunately). But! I think it's finally ready, and to compensate for the wait it is **_**super**_** long. Like, so long I would cut it in half, but I wanted this chapter to end at a certain point and by God it's going to get there, so I hope you enjoy all fifty some pages of it and maybe take a little snack break in the middle.**

* * *

Mucking the stables was unpleasant enough on its own; with an audience, it was all the more unenjoyable. Thankfully, his partner in misery was among the best he could have asked for in the unfortunate situation.

"Is there something to do about the smell?" the rogue asked Tarana as he heaved a shovelful of soiled straw into a pile in the corner. His nose wrinkled at the sharp, unpleasant odor of hawkstrider droppings.

She shrugged and bit into her apple, her appetite apparently unaffected by the pungent odor. "You can plug your nose, ser."

Strell propped up his pitchfork against the wall and looked at the girl. "You're not very good at giving advice."

The beginning of a smile pulled at her lips as she chewed. "You're not very good at cleaning a stable," she replied, exposing a mouthful of half-eaten apple with every word.

For the life of him, Strell couldn't recall how he'd ever mistaken Tarana for sweet and innocent. She was _shy_, at least around people she wasn't familiar with, but beneath that and the polite servant's front she put up, the girl could nearly be as crass and vocal as his acquaintances in the city. Of course, it had taken three days of sweating and swearing and shoveling shit alongside her before she finally stopped addressing him as 'Ser Strell' and started speaking freely- and he counted her fast friendship among his blessings, right along with Kinzal's return and Torril's blossoming independence.

"Were you half so cheeky to Kinzal during your reading lessons?" he asked as he began ripping handfuls of hay from a bale to cover the floor of the stall.

"Not when we were making progress," she said as she slipped off of the stool she'd been perched on to help him. "Just when I'd start having trouble, get stuck somewhere. Then I'd rather rib him a bit."

"Well, I've got nothing else to occupy myself with now," he muttered as they finished up in that stall and moved on to the next. "So I was thinking, maybe I could help? With the reading," he offered. "It'd speed up with two teachers, wouldn't it? I've never taught anyone anything, though."

"Don't you have parties to go to?" the girl asked, smirking. "With lots of lords and ladies getting sauced?"

Strell grinned and chuckled as he nudged a bin of sodden hay toward the barn door. "If only. No, the parties aren't quite that fun, and I wouldn't be allowed in anyway. Fairly certain I've been blacklisted from every respectable place in Eversong by now," he said as he fished out a strip of dried meat from a small burlap sack and fed Lok'tak before leading him into a separate paddock while they cleaned his stall.

"If you're really that bored," Tarana said, twisting and fidgeting in place.

"Excellent. I'll bring lots of dirty books-"

"Hah! It's true!" the stablegirl crooned triumphantly. "Maretha said she'd seen the cover of some scandalous book in your room once as she cleaned," she teased. "How many do you have?"

Strell whistled lowly. "I think there are about a dozen I'd rather not have my father see," the rogue said thoughtfully, trying to count out how many volumes were hidden behind other books on his shelf or in the back of his dresser drawers. "So, is that a matter of speculation among the servants?"

"Oh, yes," Tarana answered with a nod. She grunted softly as she grabbed up the empty feed and water buckets from Lok'tak's stall and carried them out. "Pretty mild compared to the _other_ stuff they say about you-"

"Hm, not terribly surprised," Strell murmured, shrugging.

"And especially not lately," she said softly, twisting the cleaning rag in her hands. "Now it's your brother they talk about."

The brunet elf swore quietly, a scowl in place as he scrubbed down the walls with a damp sponge. Strell didn't really care if the servants gossiped about him- his aloofness and choice of activities invited it, really- but Torril had only ever been kind and respectful to the elves in his family's employ, a thoroughly decent and upstanding individual. Or maybe that was _why_ they were so quick to leap upon his rare missteps...

"About him and Kinzal?" he asked.

Tarana nodded. "That he's to be asked to leave the Light's Hand, that he threatened to end his engagement, that you two found Kinzal in a whorehouse with a dozen blond elves," she said, rattling off the first rumors she'd heard in the kitchens and gardens.

"A dozen whores? Does anyone here even have an idea of what that would cost?" Strell asked with a shake of his head. "Kinzal doesn't make enough in a month. Ah... poor Torril. At least they do it quietly- perhaps he won't know they make mock of him."

The blonde elf quirked her lips to the side. "I think he already knows. Even if you don't hear the exact words, it's easy to tell when people have just been talking about you."

Strell sighed as he nodded. She had the right of it- he knew firsthand the feeling of entering a room and seeing its occupants suddenly glance up, the furtive smiles and sidelong glances that suggested gossip. "How can they be like that to _Torril_? They know how sensitive he is, and he's never been anything but kind to anyone working here."

"He healed my foot once when a hawkstrider stepped on it. Talon went straight through!" Tarana exclaimed, holding out her right foot. It was bare and dirty, the soles turned a dark, muddy brown from dirt, but on the top Strell could make out a pale scar the size of a gold coin.

"I hear shoes help with that," the rogue commented, one eyebrow quirking up. "The more civilized among us put them on our feet. Marvelous things, shoes."

The stablegirl stuck the tip of her tongue out at him as she dumped a pail of water into Lok'tak's trough. "Kinzal doesn't wear shoes."

"Kinzal has troll feet. Have you gotten a good look at those things?" he asked with a disbelieving grin. "They're like-"

"Tink _real_ careful 'bout what ya 'bout ta say," a low, gravelly voice rumbled from behind him. Strell turned and found Kinzal strolling into the stable, arc of red hair bobbing with his long, hunched strides. "Now, what do my feet be like?" he asked as he came to stand by the rogue.

Strell arched a brow and decided to sidestep that question. Truth be told, he found the warrior's two-toed feet perpetually messy and slightly unnerving. "It's good to finally see you, Kinzal. Had a nice morning sleeping in? We don't all get to lounge around, of course," he sighed as he shoveled soiled straw into a wheelbarrow.

The troll chuckled and rolled his neck. "'S nice, not havin' ta be on ya tail every minute of da day," he said. "An' not my fault ya lost ta ya bruddah. But Tarana be gettin' mah pity," he added with a grin, his gaze shifting to the small elf. "He slowin' ya down much?"

The elf girl blew a chunk of hair out of her face and planted her broom on the ground, leaning heavily on it as she pretended to seriously consider the son of her employer. "Well, he was a bumbling mess the first day, but I have to say, he's come a long way under my tutelage," she announced approvingly, one hand on her hip. "He barely even gags now."

"I've become inured to the... fragrant odors," the brunet elf explained with an unhappy shrug.

"Ya reek of bird shit," Kinzal agreed with a slight grimace.

"Great." The rogue sighed as he glanced down and indeed found that his shoes were flecked with white hawkstrider droppings, while his tan pants had darkened a shade around the hems- hopefully from the water used to scrub the stone floors clean, not from soaking up hawkstrider piss.

"I think you've done enough for today, Strell," Tarana said with a coy smile. "You should probably go wash up. Lords aren't supposed to smell like a barn."

"Yeah, 'm pretty sure ya maddah wanted ya in dere for lunch, an' ya can't go smellin' like dat," the warrior said, his nose wrinkling. "Let's go, mon."

* * *

One shower later, Strell almost smelled like normal. The 'almost' became apparent when he joined his family at the table for lunch and saw noses wrinkle at the offensive odor. He discretely sniffed his shirt and was disappointed to find he must have in fact become so used to the smell that he didn't much notice it, though the same couldn't be said for his parents.

Lyrent grimaced as he laid his napkin in his lap, while his mother's face paled at the stench.

"Did some wretched vagrant wander in here? What reason is there for such a vile smell at our table?"

"That would be me," Strell sighed, avoiding meeting anyone's eyes. "It's from mucking the stables."

"Why on Azeroth are you out in the stables at all?" Yvine asked in distaste. "We pay good gold precisely to have _other_ elves do that."

"We were sparring and made a bet," Torril said before Strell could speak. "I won, so he has to clean them for a week."

"Torril," she sighed, "you're a future lord. You shouldn't even be _proposing_ such conditions. You can't risk letting people see you shoveling out stables. And Strell... I don't know why I bother. Telling lies and making up stories, associating with those wretched urchins that are constantly getting themselves killed, and now... what? Are you _trying_ to make us the laughingstock of the other nobles?"

"You've found me out," he said dryly, mouth tightening in a smile. "Thankfully, I'm given quite a lot to work with."

"Eat that roast before it gets cold," she snapped, all patience for him dissipating.

Strell felt the awkward silence settle over the table like the hush that swept over the crowds when the regent lord spoke at the Court of the Sun- a silence that seemed to anticipate someone breaking it, but no one _here_ dared to. His father concentrated on his plate, while Torril's worried green gaze swept around to each of them in turn, his golden brows knitting as the unease lingered on.

Strell watched his mother furtively, noting that she seemed focused on the window facing the garden. She raised her wineglass but didn't drink, and her food was largely untouched.

As was his own.

The roasted haunch of goat on the platter in the center of the table had soured his appetite on sight. It had been beautifully presented, of course, but once chunks had been cut away to serve them, gristle and strings of pink meat clinging to the bone had done for him.

Now Strell pushed the food around on his plate, not even hungry for the sautéed greens or buttered peas and onions. He picked apart the roasted goat with his fork, frowning at how the moist meat gleamed- he didn't know whether he was more disgusted or darkly fascinated to think that he wasn't much different in terms of composition.

The young rogue looked to his hands as he idly poked at his dinner. He studied the motions of his fingers as he gripped his fork; concentrated on the feel of his spine curving as he leaned out of the way of the server who brushed past to refill his glass. He thought of every movement in the most mechanical sense, of muscles pulling tendons pulling bones. All wrapped in flesh and skin. Fed by blood.

It wasn't that he had never seen bloodshed before Mistren- there were brawls in every tavern as a necessity, and injuries, and every so often a body _did_ turn up on Murder Row- but never _so much_ blood, and never from someone that he knew so well. Strell's gaze flitted up, suddenly afraid that perhaps all eyes were on his strange behavior, wondering or scorning at his vacantness.

But his father ate his meal without any sign of alarm at his drawn face or mechanical movements, his mother was still preoccupied with the garden, and Torril was quiet and focused on his soup- if the servants noticed anything they knew better than to say. But Strell _did_ catch Kinzal giving him the oddest look from the doorway just before the troll slipped away to the kitchens, as if he knew the blood-ridden thoughts running through the elf's head.

Perhaps he did. Or close enough, at least. He'd probably seen a river's worth of blood in Northrend, and his old guardian had definitely heard by now what had transpired during his leave from the estate, had almost certainly caught a little gossip about his night terrors and changed appetites and reclusiveness. And now that _look_... Strell didn't know what to make of it.

Part of him wished to run to Kinzal now and tell him everything- to spill every confused, morbid thought that plagued him at night, to cry and be comforted. Still, the thought made him scowl at himself and his own dependency. It was hard enough to acknowledge to himself that he was cracked and cracking further, weakness spreading through him like poison in the blood. Kinzal had seen him falling apart at the seams too often already; certainly, if he hadn't been set on Torril beforehand, Strell's accumulating emotional baggage would seal it.

Besides, it seemed almost insulting to expect coddling and reassurances for seeing one beheaded elf from a person that had watched dozens of comrades splatter on the ground in Zul'drak.

The brunet pushed his plate away and excused himself to slip back upstairs, hoping Kinzal would appear once he finished his own dinner. He almost craved their old arrangement, the troll bound to him at all hours of the day, bedding in the same room. But the rogue knew that the warrior was relieved to have his own time and his own place, somewhere that he knew his nightmares could be locked away and unseen. And Strell understood that. Kinzal deserved a nice bed, anyway, not a flimsy cot.

He still had the troll lock him in, though. It was one ritual from before that the rogue needed, and it required little sacrifice on Kinzal's part; locked from within and without, his room regained a little of the safe feeling it had possessed in childhood. The warrior's brows drew together every night beforehand, reluctant to indulge him in this- he worried about the unexpected, the chance of a fire, a surge of shambling bodies from the Dead Scar. But Strell pleaded and bargained, guilted the other man a bit by mentioning that it was hard enough to sleep alone, and Kinzal relented and sealed him inside each night as if he was still trying to escape. The security it offered was strange, he knew, but undeniable.

The windows were still nailed shut, but rather than feeling like a barrier to freedom, they now seemed more like a barricade against harm. He could sleep alone in here, like this- closed off until the sun rose and Kinzal came with it.

The knock on his door was so soft Strell almost didn't catch it. "Come in," he nearly grinned, already feeling the anxious coiling of his muscles ebb.

"Strell. Ser Dayborne, I mean." He cocked his head and considered. "Nah. _Strell_. Ya mind if I wait here til da stink in my room goes away? Spilled a bottle of armor polish in dere. Still can't smell quite righ'," he added as he rubbed at his oversized nose.

"All the comforts of my room are yours," the rogue offered generously, spreading his arms wide. "There's half a chocolate bar in my jewelry box and a bottle of Suntouched Reserve somewhere... perhaps it rolled under the bed?"

"'M fine, but thank ya. Had a big dinner... how was yours?" the warrior asked as he settled down into a crouch a few feet from where Strell was stretched out on his bed.

"Fine. Same as always," the elf shrugged. He met Kinzal's eyes for a moment and bit his lip rather than let anything else slip out.

"Didn' look like ya ate much," the blue-skinned troll commented offhandedly. He twisted his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, the action sending a ripple up through his mohawk.

"Not my favourite selection of foods."

"Nah. Suppose not." Kinzal sighed and rose from his crouch into a full stretch, groaning as he straightened out his back. "Whatcha say ta headin' down for a bit an' helpin' Tarana? She said ya wanted ta lend a hand. An' ya should be outta dis room more," he added, amber eyes roving the largely unadorned walls.

The air _had_ started to grow musty here, heavy and still with the windows shut and his door locked more often than not. It was his safe haven… but then, so was Kinzal. "I'd be grateful for the distraction," he said with a brief smile. "Should I bring my books?" the rogue asked innocently. "I don't think I have the one with Ah'tusa, but-"

"Leave dat filth," the warrior spat, though he grinned a moment after, even as his cheeks darkened slightly. " Dat's advanced readin' anyway. Pretty sure she'd get a nosebleed from da covers alone... kinda like ya bruddah in dat."

"Whatever will we do with them?" Strell asked with a dramatic sigh and a shake of his head. He followed close at Kinzal's heels as they left his room behind- and he made sure to grab a slender book on the way out. It was no _Forbidden Love_ or _Northern Exposure_, but he had a sneaking feeling Tarana would appreciate something with a bold heroine on strider-back.

* * *

"Which lord was it that was always leading those raids against the Amani?"

He paced along beside the small elf as she led a hawkstrider around by a lead, occasionally holding out his bag of dried apples for her to stick her hand in. It was bright, the noon sun blazing down upon them as they walked circles through a pasture. "Hmm... you're thinking of Alasyr Brightdawn, perhaps? I hear he was quite handsome for his age. Never saw him myself, though."

"I've heard that too," Tarana said with a quick smile. "Sounds so dashing... a shame he fell. I wonder why he despised them so much," she added as an afterthought.

Strell shrugged and nibbled a soft bit of the fruit. "I remember hearing that his intended was carried off by them when he was young. Eventually he married another, of course, but I imagine the outrage never dulled."

"Oh." The stablegirl bit her lip, expression fallen. "That is tragic. Are all nobles so... like the stories?"

"Am _I_ like a story?" It would have to be one of his lewd ones, then. Certainly not the sort with heroic lords and ladies rescuing each other and successfully navigating turbulent social affairs.

"No, not you," she laughed. "Well, maybe. A _mystery_, perhaps," she said with a squint.

"I could stand to have a little less mystery in my life," he sighed.

"That you could," she agreed, sobering slightly. "I've heard a good deal about the Lightboughs-"

Strell nodded at once. "The reclusive Lightboughs... they only seem to make an appearance when there's a battle to be fought," he said with a grin. "Cut of the Farstrider cloth, all of them. I don't think there's been a Lightbough that hasn't been a soldier or a ranger in ages," he muttered. "I was punched by one, once. I swear one of my teeth is still a little loose from it."

"What did you _do_?" the stable hand asked in exasperation.

"What makes you think I did anything?" the rogue cried. "Well, alright. I had inquired as to... I had very delicately asked whether she might be willing to remove her breastplate."

"_Ser Strell_-"

"I know, I know. She responded as Lightboughs are wont to do- with her _fists_- and I learned my lesson." He flashed Tarana a sly grin. "If you're going to proposition one of their house, make it a _man_. Much less dangerous."

"You are incorrigible."

Strell sighed. "Sometimes I wish that Torril was engaged to one of them, even if it would be a ranger. He's always admired the Guard Captain, and I believe she's distantly related to that house. Awfully handy with that spear of hers. And Lightboughs do love their spears... " He handed his bag of apple slices to Tarana in exchange for the hawkstrider's lead. "He could use someone like that. Strong- in mind, not just with a sword or an axe- but with a firm sense of purpose. And _real_. Not mired in the social game, not willing to cow themselves to be considered polite. He needs a good dose of that."

"I think he _got_ a good dose of it," the other elf murmured with a pointed look.

Strell groaned softly. He didn't want to think about his brother and Kinzal, not right now.

"I agree with you, though," Tarana continued, a faint blush touching her cheeks. "He needs someone to bring him out of himself. Someone that could push him when he needs to be pushed, encourage him when he needs to hear it. He deserves that."

"He does." The brunet elf felt a pang as he realized how true it was. "And he won't be getting it from his betrothed..."

"You don't _know_ that."

"Oh, I'm quite sure. Poor girl will probably live the rest over her life with my mother breathing down her neck. The _last_ thing she'll want to do is push Torril in any direction that Yvine doesn't think is proper for him."

"I think it's rather silly that you nobles will only marry other nobles," the stablegirl huffed. "There are plenty of perfectly good people who don't have acres and acres of land or some old name," she grumbled. "Besides, so many noble elves fell... who will the ones left marry?"

"Rich merchants, most likely," Strell replied. At her increasingly sour expression, he sighed. "While unlikely and uncommon, marriages further down the ladder _have_ happened. Not always with... happy consequences, but they do occur."

"And what about ones to non-elves?" she asked lightly.

"Lady Girsa Sunwood was tossed out when she proclaimed her affection for a dwarf," the brunet shrugged. "Is that what you mean?"

"Your family would not take kindly to a troll suitor," she said with a slow nod.

"I can't think of many that would," he answered with a frown. "But no. I think our mother would sooner send Torril off to some wretched sanitarium than have him wind up with a troll."

"What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" he asked, feeling slightly agitated by her questions. Or maybe it was just the subject. Either way, he chewed angrily on a handful of apple bits, nearly glaring at the trees they passed.

"Would they care if _you_ were with a troll? Kinzal, to be specific."

The rogue scoffed and turned to look at her curiously. "I don't know. They seemed to have given up on me, but I still might be associated with our house enough to embarrass them. Does it matter? Between the two of us, Kinzal would want Torril anyway. Not that I can blame him. I'm..." _Damaged goods_, was the phrase that immediately came to mind. He smiled quickly and said instead, "a bit more of a handful."

"I don't know," the girl said uncertainly. "He always talked about you. Complained, mostly," she grinned, "but not always. I think he likes how strong-willed you are. Or he doesn't mind it, at least. There's something very attractive about confidence," she said with a decisive nod.

"Yes, well, he _kissed_ Torril, and I think that trumps chit-chatting about me."

"I thought Torril did the kissing?"

"It takes two people to kiss," Strell said with a drawn out sigh. "Even if Kinzal didn't start it, it's not as though he shoved Torril away."

"Who would?" the stablegirl said with a dreamy sigh.

"Oh, not you, too," the rogue groaned. "Light, is there _anyone_ I can associate with that isn't in love with my brother?"

"He's very winsome," Tarana said honestly, her narrow shoulders rising in a shrug. " It's hard to resist."

"I'm aware," Strell sighed, looking down at his muck-covered boots.

After a moment, the stablegirl sighed as well. "Look, you don't have to do the stables today if you aren't feeling up to it, Strell," she said, gently laying her hand on his arm. "I know you hate it, and I can handle it by myself. I do pretty much all the real work anyway," she added with a slight, teasing smile. She pinched him playfully when he didn't respond straight away.

"No, no... I want to," the brunet murmured as he brushed away her pinching fingers. "I complain a lot, but only half of it's genuine. I like... having something to do. It helps distract me. And so do you." He smiled and was relieved to see her respond in kind- he hadn't wanted to offend her, insinuate she was nothing more than a way to occupy his thoughts and time. "Not that I'm just using you for that. I like your company. Even if I wasn't so preoccupied with thoughts of... unpleasantness, I'd still enjoy being around you. But-"

"I understand, Strell," she interrupted, placing her hands squarely on his shoulders and turning him to face her. "I didn't realize you still thought of it so much," Tarana added quietly.

The rogue shrugged and tried to wriggle away a bit, feeling flayed open under her inquisitive look. "Mostly when it's quiet and I'm alone."

"Then perhaps you shouldn't be alone," she suggested simply. "Although I don't think the company of striders is what you need right now." Her freckled nose wrinkled slightly as she brushed straw and small, downy feathers from the dark fabric of his shirt. "Kinzal or your brother would be happy to see you, I'm sure."

He hummed noncommittally as he handed the hawkstrider's lead back to her. "Kinzal's gone hunting. Light only knows if I'll manage five minutes with Torril before some servant whispers in my mother's ear and he's beckoned away," he complained.

Tarana shooed him off, her gaze asking that he at least try. "The stables won't be going anywhere, and neither will I. You can always come back," she assured him as he began to scrape the soles of his boots against a fencepost and untied his sloppy ponytail, shaking his head to set his hair right. "And we're reading again tomorrow night," she added as they meandered back toward the stables and the house. "I got through a chapter of the book you gave me. I like it a lot."

"I thought it might suit you," Strell said with a pleased, slightly relieved smile. It had seemed like the sort of story she would enjoy vicariously, all humble beginnings and adventure and class-spanning romance, but he had worried she would find some fault with it. "Just don't get any ideas about stealing a hawkstrider and riding off to rescue handsome princes held captive by yeti. At least not without saying goodbye to me first," he added as they began to split up, him heading toward the hedge-lined path that led to the house and her toward the barn.

"What if I just took you with me?" she laughed before turning to the chirruping bird at her side.

* * *

The house seemed still and quiet. Not unusually so, but it was still enough to unnerve Strell a little. He saw no servants as he took the stairs up to the floor that kept his brother's rooms- his bedroom, a room for studying, a room for meditation, a room for anything Torril might conceivably need. He peeked in them one at a time, briefly wrinkling his nose at the clean, orderliness of them all, the bare dresser tops and bland, pale colors; he was simultaneously drawn by the lingering scent of lemon and sugar from the sweet snacks the blonde elf liked to eat.

He found him in the small corner room meant to serve his brother as an altar and a place of meditation. Light fell in slants through the two massive windows that flanked the small, elaborately carved medicine chest set up against the far wall; atop it was a tome so faded by sunlight that its words seemed ghostly pale, left open to some page that held meaning to Torril, he supposed.

Each wall was decorated with bronze suns, shining discs with stylized flames of light curling outward. Strands of white-gold honeyblossoms hung down the sides of the cherry-stained altar, wilted by the afternoon sun. And Torril was kneeling before it, on the circular carpet woven of golden threads.

"You're not using the pillows," Strell noted as he quietly eased the door shut behind him.

The paladin-in-training turned at the waist, golden eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of his brother. He looked down at the stack of plush pillows beside him, a faintly perplexed look crossing his features. "The carpet is enough. I tried telling mother that they weren't necessary."

"She probably just wanted people to see her buying them," the brunet sighed as he came closer, careful not to tread on the pale rug that was so clearly reminiscent of the sun. He crouched and pinched the corner of one pillow between his fingers and was unsurprised to find the quality surpassed the one that he slept with.

"How do you fare?" Torril asked him, his thoughtful green eyes settling on his brother. He crossed his ankles underneath him and shifted slightly, turning from the glossy lacquered alter and the tome of light.

"Fine."

"Liar," the paladin breathed softly as he leaned his weight back. "I see you at meals. Barely eating."

"And you barely speak," the brunet accused right back.

"I hardly even _see_ you," Torril argued softly, his gaze flitting back up to his brother, knowing he couldn't argue. With Kinzal's return his studies and training resumed- if anything, they had grown more intense and time-consuming to compensate for the lost weeks. Rarely was he afforded a chance to spend idle time as he would have preferred. "I don't see Kinzal at all," he added, his expression regretful.

"He misses talking to you, I think," Strell said, his eyes falling to the floor.

The blond elf's lips curled in a soft smile. Then he sighed. "I miss sparring with him."

The rogue nodded, the action more mechanical than actual acknowledgement. He thought with a brief, acute pang of the misery of their situation- Torril, once again prisoner of his training schedule, barred from even seeing the object of his affections; Kinzal, forbidden the same, forced by circumstances to remain unbearably close to Torril without any chance of actually acting on their proximity; and himself in the middle, trying to bridge a gap that seemed to crumble and widen with each passing day. Affection for his brother, so kind and well-liked and good-hearted... his increasing attraction and- he feared- dependency on Kinzal for companionship and security. He wondered how long he could balance the two. Restraint had never been his strongest suit, after all.

"I'm sorry. Again." Torril was pensively considering a painting that hung nearby on the wall out in the hallway- an old portrait of some relative long since passed, one of the few in their family's line that had joined the Farstriders. "I managed to put everything awry," he sighed, brow creasing with the weight of the blame he carried. "It's my own fault that I can't talk to him anymore."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, especially not to me." Strell chewed his lip in time with the strokes of his thumb over the fine silk of one of the pillows. "A part of me was... glad, though it shames me to admit it. That it worked out like this. That you don't really get to have him, either." He pressed his lips together in a tight frown, feeling the weight of Torril's stare but lacking the courage to meet it. "I'm a horrible brother. What else is new, eh?" he said with a tired laugh.

"You're not, Strell," the paladin sighed as he edged closer, rising up on his knees just enough to intercept his younger brother's gaze. "I don't blame you for feeling jealous. _I_ was when you two spent time together while I poured over tomes. Even if they were very enlightening," he added as though obligated to do so.

"Why do you always have to copy me?" Strell asked with weariness. He wove his fingers through the other elf's hair, cut in the same manner as his own, even if Torril's was soft gold rather than dark like the bark of trees along the Deadscar. "I never figured you'd go after him, you know." He hadn't thought he _himself_ would pine for Kinzal, much less his straight-laced brother.

Torril blushed and sank back down onto his heels, winding his hands together nervously. "I know. It seems very foolhardy in retrospect. I just... let myself be overcome. You needn't worry, though. Kinzal isn't in the cards for me," the paladin said with a flat smile. "This whole... _thing_ isn't, really."

"This 'thing' being... love?" Strell asked with an arched brow.

"Maybe. I wasn't thinking, Strell," he said with a heavy sigh. "I mean, I kissed him. And what could have come of it? I'm engaged. I'm going to be a lord. A paladin. An elf of oaths and vows. And a… a public fixture." He stared down at his hands, now clasped together.

The brunet frowned and glanced out a window that overlooked the garden, with red poppies blooming. "They say that Lady Sunwood had a dwarven lover."

"And look where it got her," Torril said sharply, causing his brother to turn back from the view outside. The paladin's expression softened a bit as pushed himself up onto his feet and moved closer, looking out the window as well. "Even the rest of the Sunwoods won't have anything to do with her. Her order kicked her out-"

"I thought they just sort of fell apart," the rogue interjected.

"Same thing," the blond said flatly.

"Torril," Strell sighed, "there's nothing wrong with being like her. Well, the sour old witch's _personality_ isn't worth emulating, but still, there's quite a lot to be gained from refusing to let other people govern your whole life. You can tell people to fuck off if you want to," he said softly.

"Like you did?" Torril asked skeptically, thick, sculpted brows rising.

The rogue hesitated a moment, feeling all of his recent doubts bubble up inside of him, the questions over choices of his own. "Like I did... or maybe in your own, more polite manner. However you want to do it, I'm just saying, you _can_. It won't kill you."

The paladin's lower lip jutted out slightly as he frowned. "I never thought that-"

"I mean metaphorically," the brunet said with a gently exasperated smile. "It may be inconvenient or uncomfortable, but it might be worth it anyway. You've surprised me lately," he admitted, shaking his head. "I can't help but feel like you're above all this, Torril. And one day you're going to realize it, too, and move on to some bigger calling, expectations be damned. I'd just hope it's _before_ you've got a wife and family going," he said with a gentle nudge to the paladin's shoulder.

"You have me mistaken for someone else," the blond told his brother, his gaze sliding away, a familiar meekness settling back over him. "I do not mean to leave mother or father... or you."

"Torril-"

"I have... a party with my betrothed's family to get ready for," the paladin said with a dip of his head. His expression wasn't sad- more like resigned, dutiful. A hint of a smile crept across his lips as he readied to leave. "And so you know... the week is over. You needn't muck the stables anymore."

"Perhaps I _like_ shoveling strider shit," Strell replied with a casual tilt of his head. "You might try it one day. I think you'd like the stables. Maybe Tarana, too."

The paladin's smile became uncertain. "Probably. But I can't see that going over well," he said apologetically.

"No," Strell sighed as he backed out of the room, waiting just outside the threshold while his brother pinched out the candles and reverently closed the book atop the altar. It was a place that was so thoroughly _Torril_ that it felt like he was intruding even when he knew he was welcome. "I can't see it happening either," he agreed sadly.

* * *

"What smells... different?" Strell asked as he wandered in to the kitchens. The clatter of pots and pans and the bellowing of orders at washerboys were missing, replaced instead with a relaxed silence and a fragrant scent of fruit and spice.

"Ya cook was given da night off an' ya faddah asked if I could feed ya," the troll within said with a quick smile, his lengthy tusks nearly knocking a pot off the wall as he turned to glance over his shoulder at Strell. He held himself languidly, relaxed as he stirred the bubbling pot. "Dis be food from da islands. Well, close as I kin get it. Had ta make some substitutions," he said with a shrug. "Should taste close, anyway."

Strell edged past the troll to peer down into the pot on the stove. The countertop was littered with the rinds of colorful fruits- some of which he recognized, some he didn't- and shells, a stripped chicken carcass and the crimson stems of peppers from Kalimdor. Kinzal had obviously visited the part of the bazaar dedicated to foreign goods, imported from the tropic places that reminded him of home.

"What is it?" he asked as he stirred the pot with the wooden spoon left lying next to it. The liquid inside was thick and creamy, an off-white color flecked with bits of green and faint swirls of red. He lifted the ladle and recognized crab meat, chunks of chicken, and rings of squid. And rice- short, fat grained rice, unlike the type usually used in Eversong.

The troll said something in Zandali that the elf didn't quite catch. Then he smiled and said, "'S like a big soup ya throw whateva ya want inta."

"I hope you didn't use an Amani recipe for it. Might include elves," the rogue said with a little wince.

"Nah, dem Amani eat like pine branches an' shit. No, dis be Darkspear cookin' at its finest. Coconut an' chilies and dark sugar- 's got all da flavors goin' on. All in one bowl, dat's how we do it. An' it'll fill ya up better'n dese elfy foods," the warrior added, the skin around his nostrils wrinkling.

"And what's in this pot?" the brunet asked as he pointed to the one at the back of the stove, the same creamy white soup bubbling away.

"Ah... dat's da same, but witout any meat for ya. Jus'... in case ya wanted it like dat," the troll said quietly. "Or I kin add exactly what ya want- clams, squid, scallops, whateva. Dere's extra of everyting in da cellar."

Strell bit his lip and strummed his fingers on the countertop. "Thank you, Kin. I actually... I don't think I'd mind this, though," he said quietly, looking back at the troll. "It's not bad like this. It's when it's all... on the bone. I don't like cutting into it."

"I hear ya," Kinzal said with a low sigh. "I'm glad ya okay wit it," he added with a quick grin, the blue skin around his eyes crinkling warmly. "Dis be how _my_ maddah made it. I wanted ya ta taste it."

"Thank you," the elf murmured again, lingering close at the warrior's side. He cleared his throat quietly and watched Kinzal tend to the pots on the stove with all the attentiveness of a new parent with their child.

"'S important not ta let da milk scald," the warrior said when Strell commented on his ceaseless stirring and tasting. He smiled after, lips pulling back around his tusks and the corners of his eyes crinkling, looking very content as he tended to their meal.

"It's a shame they're not here to try it too," the elf said quietly. He imagined the fare at Torril's betrothed's house right now was all impeccably elvish, served in well-ordered courses, crafted to impress. He found he preferred the thought of Kinzal's family recipe.

"We'll save some for ya bruddah," Kinzal said with a little laugh. "But I tink ya faddah would take one polite spoonful an' ya maddah would dump it on me instead."

The rogue grimaced at the accuracy of it and darted behind the troll to a cabinet that held sturdy wooden bowls, the sort that the servants used to eat. The fine china reserved for his family's dinners seemed wasted on the two of them. He picked up to and then hesitated, hand hovering over a third. "Think Tarana'd like to eat with us?"

"She went ta visit her aunt since she got da night off," Kinzal murmured, wiping his hands off on a clean rag before turning off the pale blue flames of the arcane stove.

"Are you worried about her?" Strell asked as he set the bowls down on the counter.

The troll was silent as he ladled soup into the dishes, careful to scoop out a fair distribution of rice and broth and meat. He carefully sprinkled chopped herbs and thinly sliced peppers on top, then nodded firmly as he nudged Strell's bowl toward him. "Let's sit outside, eh?" he suggested as he grabbed his own food.

Strell frowned as he followed, two spoons and a pair of cloth napkins in hand, out to the steps that led from the kitchen. The pale stone was discolored, dotted with faded tones of brown and old red- the drippings from slaughtered fowl and lynxes brought in to be butchered. He stared down until he felt a nudge on his shoulder, looked up to see Kinzal jerk his mohawked head to the side, toward the pavilion down at the bottom of the hill.

It was where he'd kissed Torril. It was all the elf could think as he followed the warrior down the slope and under the golden honeyblossom trees, their branches currently bare of flowers. They settled on the pillowed benches under the roof, brushing stray leaves off before they sat and made themselves comfortable.

"'S not jus' me dat's worried," Kinzal said after a few minutes of quiet slurping.

It was very good soup- delicious, something Strell would openly have praised as perfect, even if the spice of it made his nose run a bit- and he was almost bitter that the tone and feel of the conversation left little room to bring it up.

"Everyone be gettin' scared now," he continued, stirring in his bowl as he sighed. "Word's been gettin' out, more an' more missin' elves, more bodies… dey say a woman was found in da woods." He shook his head when Strell startled. "Not dese woods. Somewhere called da Lightswood?"

Strell nodded, recognizing it.

"An elf by da name of Lyseria Lightbough," the troll said, watching his face curiously.

"That's... a noble," Strell said in flat tones. He stirred his soup without really noticing it at all, once again thinking of the tendons and bones and muscle that were responsible for the action. "The guard captain said it wouldn't be long before… before he started coming after us, too. I suppose no elf can sleep easily now," he said with a grim smile.

Kinzal had set his bowl down and was watching him intently. "You can," he said slowly, pronouncing both words carefully. "No one's gonna touch ya. I ain' gonna let 'em."

The rogue smiled softly as he considered those words; enough appetite returned for him to take another few bites, savoring the mixed scents and tastes that all called Kinzal to mind. He glanced to the troll and chewed his lip for a moment. "We should maybe get your swords. They might come in handy, even around here."

Kinzal rubbed his chin and ran the back of his knuckles against the underside of a tusk, his brow furrowing. "I tink ya may be right," he agreed.

* * *

They spent half an hour sharpening and polishing Kinzal's already well-maintained weapons, and then another half an hour checking over the house's security. All of it put Strell slightly more at ease, and he hummed softly as he helped the warrior nail an extra lock to the servants' entrance. The handful of staff that lingered on to clean and tend to the house and stables seemed relieved by their impromptu inspection as well; the rogue was pleased but unsurprised to note that the servants seemed much more keen on Kinzal now that he was seen as a potential deterrent to the elf-slayer.

"Kinzal!" The old gardener approached them at a brisk stride, the knees of his trousers dark with soil. He offered an apologetic look as he interrupted them. "My lord,' he said first, nodding toward Strell before addressing the troll. "Kinzal, there is a messenger for you at the gates. He says it's urgent."

The warrior grumbled lowly, the sound deep in the back of his throat. He glanced between the two elves and sighed. "Be back in a few, Strell. Why don' ya find dat book on traps an' snares an' practice a few?" he suggested before he lumbered toward the front of the estate, the gardener trying to keep up with his long strides.

The rogue wasted no time in heading to Kinzal's room to find the text he'd mentioned. It was there in a perilously tall stack of books, all used for Tarana's instruction, his own reading, or both. He picked through them one by one, running fingertips across the embossed leather covers- _Historic Sites and Where to Visit Them_, _The Qiraji Menace_, _A Study of Smithing_, and a collection of heroic poems about the first of their elven ancestors to cross the sea. The elf never ceased to be surprised at how much Thalassian Kinzal had picked up, even able to decipher a few lines from archaic works with spellings that he himself had difficulty with. His grasp of Common was impressive, too, but he supposed it made sense after the troll had spent time working with the Argents.

There were books he didn't recognize, storybooks, small novels meant solely to entertain. One guide to local flora. And then _The Handbook of Traps and Trap Construction._ The small text underneath added that it also covered knots and bondage. The elf flipped through the yellowed pages and wondered how he'd never found this book before; this was unspeakably useful for a rogue, was the rare book he would actually consider worth reading. It had presumably sat in their library for years, gathering dust, until Kinzal found it in the course of his methodical exploration of the shelves.

Strell smiled to himself as he found instructions for an electrified snare meant to stun the prey into incapacitation, followed by a diagram of how to bind a captive's arms and legs with a single length of rope. As he flipped through more pages, dark eyebrows rose higher and higher. Perhaps his father had known that putting this sort of thing under lock and key would only have drawn him to it, opting instead to hide it in plain sight among thousands of other books that he'd never care to look twice at.

The rogue's brow furrowed as he turned the book sideways to better view an illustration of an elf gagged and trussed up like a pig.

"Good Light," he murmured to himself as he slowly headed back downstairs, eyes glued to the book in hand. He wondered if Kinzal had gotten this far, and what he thought of the numerous, _very_ informative drawings of elves tied and restrained.

The shadow of an impish grin pulled at his lips as he thought of questioning the troll about it. His cheeks and ears would probably darken to that lurid shade of violet-tinged blue, his toes would curl against the floor. The elf was still smiling to himself when he picked up the sound of hurried steps in his direction, the familiar cadence of bare feet against polished marble.

"Is everything alright?" he asked as soon as Kinzal rounded the corner, the book temporarily forgotten as he quickly took in the warrior's flustered state- his shoulders squared and his skin flushed dark, his breathing louder and heavier than usual.

"Strell, I gotta go, mon," the troll said at once. "Just for a bit. My cousin's girl came here ta Silvermoon an' she done broke some whore's hip an' run up near fifty gold on her tab. I get ta go bail her out an' get her on a zeppelin back home," the warrior said, followed by a displeased groan and a twist of his head to work a crick out of his neck.

"Broke a hip?" Strell asked in disbelief.

"Aye," Kinzal groaned, running his hand down his face tiredly. "An' da brothel wants compensation for his healing costs."

"Do you need any gold?" the rogue asked, knowing that recovery from such an injury couldn't have come cheap.

"Nah, she need ta learn from dis, an' I don' want ya dragged inta dis mess anyway. Her problem. Family problem," he sighed. "I'm gonna vouch for her, an' hold her ta her word, but she gotta settle her own debts." He frowned as he scratched at his chin, already looking anxious to leave. "She be a good kid, but..."

"It's a big change, being on your own for the first time," the elf supplied. He thought of the troll girl at the tavern and grimaced for the situation she'd gotten into. "Tell me, didn't _you_ do a few irresponsible things when you first set out alone?"

"Well, I _didn'_ drink ma weight in wine an' den damn near break a whore in half," Kinzal said with a tight-lipped shrug.

"Fair enough," the rogue sighed. He pushed back his hair with the palm of his hand and pursed his lips, absently thumping the book in his hand against his thigh.

"Spirits willin', I'm gonna be back before dawn," the troll grumbled as he pulled his cloak out of the entryway closet. He paused long enough to give Strell an apologetic look. "I may not be back in time ta lock ya in before bed… ya wanna do dat now? Or are ya okay witout it-"

"No, no, now is fine," he answered quickly, wrapping his arms around himself and squeezing. "Just come and let me know when you get back, even if it's late. Or early. So far it's elves that have been targeted, but…"

"Don' worry about me," Kinzal said as he followed the elf up the stairs and to his room. "I'm gonna be fine. An' _you_ gonna be fine. Locked in, locked out-"

"Thank you," the rogue sighed gratefully as the warrior tugged on the chain around his neck that held the key to the outer lock. He smiled through the sliver of open door and was comforted by the one he got in return.

He gently shut the bedroom door and listened for the click of the key before he bolted and chained it from inside and spun the lock on the doorknob.

"Be back soon as I can." Kinzal's voice was muffled through the thick door.

"Be careful," Strell answered, nearly pressing his lips to the wood, his fingers curling against the smooth carvings etched into the material. He checked the locks again as he listened to the troll's heavy footfalls as he hurried back downstairs and off to help his cousin's daughter.

The elf fished the half-empty bottle of wine out from under his bed and took a few sips to calm his nerves. Then he settled on the bed and worried in spite of the alcohol- about Kinzal and the troll girl, Torril and his family, Tarana and her aunt, and Lyseria Lightbough, who had once punched him so hard in the jaw that there were days he _still_ felt it.

And while a rational part of him repeated to himself that it was not because of him, not tied to him, not related to him at all… He'd barely known her, had flirted too forwardly with her and received his dues, had perhaps passed her a mere handful of times since then.

But even so, he thought of her broken body lying somewhere in the woods that the ranger-elves of her house so loved and he felt partly to blame, even if he could not say _why_. He grabbed the bottle of Suntouched Reserve and took an angry swig from it, frustrated at himself, and the killings, and most of all at the lingering, sickening sense that there was a pattern to it that he wasn't seeing, one that involved _him_ for reasons unknown.

For once, though, the quiet was as helpful as it was unnerving. He opened the book to a section on rope-based maneuvers and studied it seriously, taking the satin belt from one of his nicer robes and practicing with it. He moved on to knots when his attention began to wander, carefully twining the material into loose versions of the examples on the pages and then picking them apart again.

He only noticed the passing of time when the sunlight became too weak to read by; the rogue stood and stretched his legs and back, reaching for the ceiling and groaning. He lit candles and flipped on the arcane lamps along the walls and on his desk, then went to draw the curtains over his windows. The carriage was still missing from its place beside the stables, but no stable hands stood watch for the lord and lady to return, no servants waited to assist at a moment's notice and carry their things into the house. In fact, Strell noticed that though the lamps in the stable and along the garden path were on, no one was on the grounds at all, not even the few elves that normally stayed up late in the night on the steps outside of the servants' wing to smoke and talk. He frowned at how quickly the fear had spread once the killings had grown too noticeable to be ignored, how potent it was now that all knew even the highest born elves were not safe.

Strell stripped off his leather vest and undid his belt, flinging both into a pile by the feet of his desk. His cotton shirt was comfortable enough, but he traded his trousers for a pair of soft, looser drawstring pants and then settled back on his bed, determined to master the next knot in the series.

He cursed as the silky fabric came loose from the intended knot, the twists and ties all falling apart in his hands. His frown deepened as he tried it again and again, still having no success at making it stay. He was distracted from his frustration when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Too light to be Kinzal's, he realized with a frown- had his family returned since he last checked the window? Even so, the steps certainly weren't his brother's, and he could think of no reason his mother would ever have to see him.

"Father?" he guessed, confused at why he would visit at such an hour. "Why are you up so late?"

The footsteps didn't slow. They reached the landing soon after, toes tapping against the base of the door just barely and a dark shadow appearing at the sliver of a gap near the floor. And then the doorknob rattled, shaking as someone- who it was, Strell could not imagine- slowly twisted and turned it.

The elf sat rigidly on his bed, a dagger from a bedside dresser now gripped in hand, his breath held fast in his throat as the keyhole clinked with the delicate application of lockpicks. Cold dread swept up from his gut, bringing bile to peak in the back of his throat. He thought of Mistren, of the murderous creature that had dragged that girl into the woods.

"I'll kill you," he said shakily, clenching his teeth in response to the waver he could hear in his own voice. "I'll kill you if you come in here. I know what you are," he added in a hiss, steeling himself with the sudden and inarguable certainty that the malevolent person on the other side of the door was the very same one responsible for all manner of tragedy that had transpired over recent weeks.

The metallic clicking ceased abruptly, though the doorknob made the faintest noise as whoever was on the other side gave it one last try. After a moment of heavy silence, Strell saw something slip underneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

Then the footsteps resumed, light and leisurely as they retreated back down the staircase before being swallowed up by the nighttime silence of the house.

It was minutes before the elf regained his breath enough to stop clutching his dagger like a lifeline, and many minutes more before he could work up the nerve to crawl out of bed and toward the door.

A lock of dark hair tied with a red ribbon lay on his floor. Not ebony, like his own, or like his father's. Not Torril's blond or Kinzal's white-peppered crimson. An auburn shade, lustrous and well cared for… his _mother's_.

* * *

"Honestly, Strell, have you lost your mind?"

"You... you are alright, then?" he asked, worriedly scanning her face for some sign of threat, some fear, some recognition. He took a deep breath to steady himself, his mouth parting slightly as he tried to piece last night to this morning.

"I was doing quite well until my son nearly bowled me over," she said sharply, brusquely pushing past him and into the dining room. She was made up for the day, already moving with her usual sense of hurry to get somewhere else- but under the carefully applied makeup, the signs of a late, sleepless night remained. "I fear you have already put a wrinkle in my freshly ironed robes."

Strell's mouth remained open, but no sound came. _Have you lost your mind? _he asked himself, echoing her words. _More and more every day._ His mother was as she ever was- nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate she had been victimized by the murderer that apparently favored their estate for stalking. They had not even been home at the time, he'd surmised after, their carriage only returning to the estate a few hours before dawn.

Strell shook his head and tried to pick up the thread of his thoughts, but everything seemed tangled around dark shadows and women in white and bloody scripts.

"Are you finished harassing me?" Yvine asked impatiently, her arms, swallowed up in the billowing sleeves of her velvety robes, crossing while she waited.

There was the hair. He had clung to it as proof, evidence of _something_ twisted and strange having occurred, but in the dwindling seconds following her scornful dismissal Strell realized it proved nothing at all.

"I... I suppose," he answered dumbly, still caught up in scanning her hair for some missing piece.

Yvine's eyebrows rose as she turned away, already retreating back to her wing of the house.

Strell put his heels together and slouched in place, brow knitted as he replayed the previous night in his mind again and again until he'd once more convinced himself it wasn't a nightmare or a hallucination, nor some bizarre prank of a servant.

With a listless sigh and a few fidgety movements of his fingers, the young rogue took off to the other side of the house, toward the servants' wing, and up a narrow flight of stairs to Kinzal's room. He knocked on the thin wooden door and pressed his lips against the sliver where it met the frame. "Kin, I... I need to talk to you," he murmured. " Please."

A few heavy footfalls and then the door was swung open, the troll within quickly beckoning him inside. "Now?! _Now_ ya kin talk ta me? Afta ya knocked me aside an' barreled down da stairs dis mornin'?" Kinzal asked as soon as the door was shut again. "I been sittin' in here wonderin' what I coulda done ta ya for ya ta bolt-"

"No, I'm sorry, I just needed to see my mother. Needed to see her myself- it was urgent. At least I thought it was," he added with a quick shake of his head. He told the warrior of last night's visit- the shadow, the rattling doorknob, the faint clicking of lockpicks. "I have the hair, it's in my room. I can show you, and I swear I'm not lying-"

"I don' tink ya lyin'," Kinzal said slowly, leaning down to lock eyes with him. "Ya don' gotta prove anyting else ta me."

Strell's tongue felt thick in his mouth, and for some reason tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes. He held them back- for the most part, at least. If one or two escaped as they made their way back to his bedroom, the elf felt certain they'd gone unnoticed by Kinzal. He remained steady as he dug through a chest piled high with dry volumes on arcane theory and lineages, fishing out the ribbon-tied lock.

"What's going on?" the rogue asked, curling in his lips and pressing them together to try and ward off the trembling of his chin.

"I dunno," Kinzal answered as he gingerly picked up the auburn hair and examined it. He stood to his full height, the crown of his tall mohawk nearly brushing the small chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. "I dunno, but 's gonna be okay, alrigh'? I'll move back in here," he said quietly, reaching out tentatively to rest his hands on the shivering elf's shoulders.

Strell shrugged off the warrior's light touch and pushed forward until he could press his face into Kinzal's chest and block out everything except for the feel of the thin cotton and the warm skin beneath it, and the smell of salt and lingering odors of wine and smoke. He was beyond caring about anything but how safe he felt with his arms wrapped around the troll, with strong, wiry arms coiled about him in turn. He didn't even have to think guiltily of his brother, because this wasn't a matter of coming between them, of encroaching- this was for survival, for his sanity, and no one could fault him for that.

"Is it me?" he asked, words sinking into the comforting solidness of Kinzal's chest. "The woman in the woods, Effie, Mistren, Lyseria, this. It's all happened to other people, but... is it because of me?" he asked, his heart thumping wildly at the thought.

Kinzal was murmuring reassurances against the top of his head, lips and tusks brushing his hair. It soothed Strell, eased his rising panic and slowed his breaths, but it did nothing to stop the growing unease within him.

"What if it is? If it is me. You could be in danger, and Torril, anyone I know, even slightly," he whispered against the troll's shirt. "If I do go, would it get better?"

"It ain' you," Kinzal snapped, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back, forcing the elf to look him in the eye. "An' don' ya _dare_ tink of runnin' off again," he growled.

"You said you believed me, that I'm not making this up," the rogue protested.

"I do. But 'm _not_ gonna let ya sit here an' blame yaself somehow." The warrior took a deep breath and drew back a little further, the growing distance eliciting a disappointed noise from the elf. "I know, Strell, I know when dis be happenin' ya try ta see a pattern in it, try ta find some reason in da slaughter. But it _ain' you_. It feels like dat," he said gently, reaching out to press his palms to either side of Strell's chin, the rough pads of his thumbs trailing over his cheeks, "because ya goin' outta ya way ta see all da ways it comes back ta ya."

"I made an indecent proposal to Lyseria Sunwood," Strell whispered, biting his lip afterward as if he'd confessed to having a hand in her death. "The one you said they found in the woods. Years ago…"

"Years ago," the troll repeated softly. His tender strokes along the elf's cheekbones and the curve of his jaw never ceased. "Strell, for every Mistren dere were two more dat ya had no ties ta whatsoever. Elves ya probably neva talked ta, never saw. I know it be hard ta accept, but sometimes death be… chance. Senseless. Meaningless."

"Why would he come to my door?" the elf asked dully. He covered Kinzal's large hands with his own, pressed the warm palms more firmly against his skin.

The warrior seemed troubled by that, caught off guard. "I dunno," he admitted after a few moments. His brow creased and the lines around his mouth set in a way that made him look hard and unforgiving. "It don' matter, though. I'm not gonna leave ya alone for a minute," he said resolutely.

"Is that a promise?" Strell asked with a weak laugh. At the troll's expressionless nod, he both sobered and brightened. "You… you can't be with me every second of every day," he said tentatively.

"Watch me," Kinzal said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Come wit me so I kin get my shit from da other room." He made certain that Strell was only a step or two behind him, turning and checking on him repeatedly along the way.

"You're really serious about this?" the elf asked as he watched the warrior gather his meager belongings and stuff them into the thick canvas bag he carried slung over one shoulder.

"Serious," the troll said gruffly. He handed half of the stack of books to Strell for him to carry back and tucked the other half under his arm.

"What about…" He trailed off, not wanting to bring up Torril. "What about my parents? You think they'll look the other way?"

Kinzal shrugged. "If dey notice, an' if dey have a problem wit it, dey can say so. But I ain' gonna leave ya," he said in a tone of finality.

Strell felt warmth push outward from his center, driving away most of the lingering fear from last night. He felt lighter on the walk back, happier in spite of the dark shadow that he felt hanging over him like a storm-heralding cloud. "I wish you didn't have to use that stupid cot," Strell mumbled when they got back. He set the books down on his desk and sighed as he tried to picture where best to place the troll's bedding.

"'M not usin' dat stupid cot," Kinzal replied as he locked the door and bolted it. He mumbled something about adding another lock, and one for Torril's room.

The elf's brow furrowed. He looked inquisitively to the floor, wondering if it was more comfortable than the scratchy cot. "Then where will you sleep?"

In answer, the troll cleared his throat and glanced toward the bed. "I jus'… wanna be close by. At least for da next few nights. But only if it be okay wit ya," he hurried to add.

"Okay?" Strell asked, his incredulousness giving way to barely contained glee. "Okay?! It's more than okay," he said as he climbed onto the bed and hurried to push aside the blankets for the warrior. "Here, I don't need all of these pillows," he said as he fluffed one that had been squashed against the headboard and slid it to the other side of the bed. "Do you want to try it out now? I mean, you don't have to… I didn't sleep well last night, though. I didn't sleep at all, actually," he clarified with a tired slump of his shoulders. "Even if you're just nearby while I take a nap…"

He suppressed a smile when the mattress dipped as the large troll eased himself onto the bed and drew the blankets up to his waist; thought it was large, the mattress was still only made for an elf and proved too short for Kinzal, forcing him to let his feet dangle over the edge. There was a good foot of space between the two of them, perhaps a little more than that, even. Strell laid down and propped his head up and watched the warrior shift and wriggle until he was comfortable.

"What you said earlier about… trying to make sense of death," the elf said quietly, gaze concerned. "Did that happen in Northrend?"

Kinzal didn't respond at first. He expelled a great breath of air, his chest sinking with the sigh. "Yeah. When I first got stationed in Zul'drak," he said heavily. "Didn' know better, den. All I could see was dat people aroun' me kept dying. Dyin' _for_ me, dyin' _because_ of me. An' other times… one night I was helpin' ta guard da eastern wall of da temple, just sittin' next ta da other guy. It'd been a quiet night. We was talkin' abou' da state of da latrines, joking aroun'. An' I heard… an' den I _felt_ it."

Strell waited while the troll chewed his bottom lip, eyes focused on the canopy of the bed that hung above them. "A gargoyle had landed up on da roof. It found a loose slab of rock along da edge an' pushed it off. Right above us, an' we never heard it. Crushed him. One minute we had been talkin', an' da next he was splattered all over me." He rolled his head to the side, long tusks pointed at the elf as he stared at him. "I couldn' believe dat it was just… da way it had happened. Why him an' not me? Why not both of us? What did I do, what _didn'_ I do? I asked myself dat every time I saw someone else get carried up an' den dropped, or overwhelmed by ghouls. Wasn' til I had my first sobbin' fit dat I realized dat's how dey felt too, other survivors. I'd been so preoccupied wit myself… imagined dey all thought me cursed. 'Hey, don' patrol wit _dat_ troll, everyone aroun' him gets eaten or clobbered'," he mimicked with a short laugh. "Nah. Dey were all too busy tinkin' da same about demselves, if dey'd outlasted enough comrades, too."

The skin around his eyes crinkled slightly as he turned back to the elf beside him. "'S not ya fault," he said with a tight-lipped smile. "Not even if he _was_ hurtin' people just ta get at ya, which I don' tink is da case. It be _his_ choices, an' you got no part in any of dat. But I understand worryin' dat somehow you be da cause. It be part of survivin' horrible tings, Strell, like da memories an' da nightmares. Ya don' get off unscathed jus' 'cuz ya don' die."

Strell nodded, his cheek rubbing against the cool fabric of his pillow. His gaze drifted down to the troll's tusks, which he'd never studied so closely or intently. They were discolored and nicked in places, shallow gouges dug out of the ivory-like bone. He ran his finger along the tip of one, feeling its graininess in some places, the polished smoothness of others. "Later this afternoon can I show you the knots I learned?" he asked with a small yawn.

"I'd like dat." His eyes were soft, pale glimmers of amber that comforted the rogue. "Sleep. 'M gonna wake ya for a late lunch. An' knot-making," he murmured with a gentle grin.

Strell let his head sink further into the pillow. It seemed surreal to have Kinzal beside him, practically within arm's reach. His presence alone was enough to banish the elf's anxiety. His smell, the warmth that even now seeped to Strell's side of the bed, the air stirring with his breath- it was better than any sleeping draught, more potent than a drug whipped up in Murder Row. And if he fell asleep to thoughts of the troll's gravelly voice and gentle touch, it was without any of the guilt or doubt that plagued him during brighter hours.

* * *

Strell tossed the last of the letters into the fire. He felt strangely unmoved as the flames licked at the parchment, curling the corners as it turned the lavender envelop to a sooty black.

He wasn't really in the mood for the usual fare of his mail- flowery praise intended to charm his clothes off or gossip about new scandals- especially now that the whispers would certainly involve _him_. Doubtless, the now-charred letters had contained many a carefully worded question as to the events that had transpired that caused Effira to leave her apartments and the city guard to move in, or how a Dayborne's son had stumbled upon a murder.

The thought that made him despair the most was a niggling worry that perhaps some would think he'd had a hand in it; worse, that he was responsible and was getting off free because of his status, which wasn't unheard of. Rumors in general he could brush off, but if Larilla heard and came to believe it, that he had done something to her brother...

He suddenly wished he had more to burn.

Green eyes roved over the desk. There _was_ one more, but it wasn't his to destroy. It was a letter for Kinzal, marked from Agmar's Hammer, battered and stained with inky fingerprints.

Strell glanced back over to the heavily snoozing troll. His bed was the nicest Kinzal had ever slept upon, he said, second in comfort only to the hammocks he'd grown up using. The elf hadn't seen him struggle with any nightmares this night or the last, though he wondered if the folded parchment from Agmar's Hammer would soon change that.

He was silent as a shadow as he climbed back onto the bed, kneeling next to his pillow and folding his hands in his lap. He smiled to himself as he watched the troll's long ears twitch in his sleep. Kinzal looked years younger like this, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes softening considerably.

Strell was tempted to touch him- his hair, the broad fan of red that brushed the headboard, or his tusks, his half-curled hand or the sharp curve of his cheek. But he didn't want to risk waking him at all, much less in a manner that might cause the troll to lurch out of his sleep in a panic. Instead, Strell watched the even rise-and-fall of Kinzal's chest and was grateful- unspeakably grateful, so relieved by the warrior's vow to stay with him that he'd woken at dawn to attempt a prayer of thanks to the Light or whatever spirit had put things on a better path. He had felt foolish, but he couldn't deny that there was something uplifting about the rising sun, and for a moment he'd understood what drove Torril to seek it out.

Kinzal stirred, his lengthy arms stretching out like a napping lynx's, and then woke all at once, his golden-hued eyes focusing on Strell almost immediately.

"Good mornin'," he mumbled sleepily as he rubbed his eyes. He sat up on his elbows and blinked blearily.

"Good morning," the elf said with a brief nod, trying to pretend as if all had been perfectly innocent. He slid from the bed and went to the table, fearing the warmth in his cheeks would betray something to the troll. "For you," he said quietly as he plucked up the crumpled letter and passed it to the warrior. Thin, dark eyebrows raised in relief at the immediate distraction it provided.

Kinzal turned the letter over in his hands, a frown marking the corners of his mouth as he saw the sender's address and the wax seal on the back. "When?"

"Tarana brought them up this morning as soon as the postman arrived."

Amber eyes flickered to the desk, to the bedside table, and back to the bed. "Shouldn' _you_ have a stack of 'em somewhere, den?"

"I wasn't in the mood for reading," the elf shrugged. He glanced pointedly at the blazing fire in the hearth, warming the room more than it needed.

"Oh." His frown deepened as he slid his thick thumbnail under the fold of the envelope and slit it open. The parchment inside was thin and yellowed, too small for the tiny, cramped writing that left no inch of it bare of ink.

Strell waited patiently for the troll to finish reading. He paced slowly beside the bed, swinging his arms, and after several minutes passed he took up his satin belt and practiced knots while sitting on the foot of the bed.

"Good news or bad?" the elf asked when Kinzal was finally done. He set his progress on a knot down on his lap and looked to him with concern.

"Bad," the troll rumbled as he folded the letter up and stuffed it back inside the envelope. At Strell's curious expression, he shook his head. "Ya'll be hearin' about it soon enough," he explained, all seven feet of him looking shaken and grim. "Let's head out. I be needin' some sunshine. An' I gotta send someone on an errand…" he mumbled as he changed his shirt for a clean one.

The errand concerned Strell far less than the suggestion of sunshine and the outdoors. He thought of the pond, the pavilion, or of simply walking through the autumnal forest, all gold with the last light of morning.

Kinzal took his swords, careful not to knock the chandelier again as he slid the blades into the sheaths strapped across his back, and the rogue brought his daggers. He quickly showed the troll his newest knot, and with a faint but approving smile, Kinzal promised they would find him a real rope to work with before they came back.

"It might be time I start practicing on a real person as well," the elf said teasingly on their way out the door. He eyed the troll up and down and made a show of estimating the length of rope he would require for such a tall, long-limbed prisoner.

"Try it an' I'd turn _you_ inta a knot, elfie."

* * *

Strell examined the faint rope burns on his wrists as he rubbed the towel over his wet skin and dripping hair; in the mirror above the sink he could also see the discolored thread of bruising that ran diagonally over his torso, marking where the loop of rope had slipped over his head under his left arm and jerked him to a painfully abrupt stop.

"Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" he grumbled for perhaps the third time. He put his head through the open door into his bedroom to let Kinzal see his frown.

The troll shrugged, more concerned now with the letter and burlap bags that one of the servant boys had brought to him on their way inside the house.

Strell knew of Farstriders that used whips instead of, or in conjunction with, bows and spears and other typical ranger weapons. He knew they could be used to pull a rider off of their mount or bring a fleeing enemy to their knees. He _hadn't_ realized that a lasso of rope could do the same, nor that Kinzal was proficient in their use.

"I really need to stop underestimating you," the rogue grumbled as he pulled on a clean set of clothes and threw his grass and dirt stained ones onto the pile by his desk. He checked his wrists again and decided to try dabbing some lotion on them. "You didn't have to tie me up and carry me back, either. And when did you get so deft at binding people up?" he asked with a suspicious squint.

"When I had ta start dealin' wit wriggly little elves," the warrior said with a slight smirk. "Stop tryin' ta play ya little tricks on me an' dis wouldn' have ta happen," he added with a snort.

Strell rolled his eyes as he shut the bathroom door behind him. "It was harmless fun-"

"Tch! 'Harmless fun', righ'. Dat's why ya _bolted_ as soon as I got loose," the troll said with a mocking nod.

"Well, when a troll twice my size is bellowing obscenities _just _because of a little snare hoisting him up into a tree…" he reasoned, shrugging a shoulder as he continued to dry his hair. "Hey, what's this?" he asked as he grabbed up an unsightly dried chicken's foot that was lying on his table.

It was gnarled and twisted like a dried up root. It had apparently been dyed and doused in pungent oils before having brilliant hawkstrider feathers attached to it, all of which only added to the elf's confusion. His lip curled involuntarily at the offensive thing and he was dumbfounded at how it could have wound up in his room.

Kinzal's attention was finally drawn from the lengthy letter on his lap. "_Dat's_ a protection amulet," the troll said lowly, rising out of his seat to snatch it back. "An' dat one is for Torril."

"Oh." The rogue let his arms fall to his sides, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He balled up the damp towel he'd been using and tossed it on the pile of dirty laundry.

"Yours be in da bag still," Kinzal added, giving the elf a quick, curious look.

Strell's eyebrows lifted as he approached the burlap sack that the warrior had pointed to and peeked inside. There was an entire flock's worth of chicken feet within, all dyed and powered in different combinations of colors, the myriad scents clashing horribly to form one headache-inducing odor. "There are dozens," the rogue said uncertainly. "Which one is mine?"

"All of dem," the troll said with a concerned sigh. "I tink ya need a little extra help from da loa."

"Oh," the elf said softly as he picked up a green-stained foot. He did suddenly feel much better, but he chalked it up to Kinzal's concern rather than any protection provided by the musty amulet in hand.

"Each one got a different purpose," the warrior said, reaching in to grab a few. "Dis one be for nightmares. Never worked for me, but maybe some loa got an eye on ya," he said with a little wink. "Dis one be for evil spirits, and dis one for physical protection, and dis one for bad luck, an' dese two supposed ta protect from lies an' treachery."

"Should have put in a bulk order." Strell smiled as he examined each of the smelly talismans.

"Maybe," Kinzal agreed. "Anyway, wear dis one," he advised, lifting up a curled foot colored like twilight, fading from lavender to a somber midnight blue, that smelled of peacebloom and orange peel. He strung it on a thin leather cord and carefully put the necklace over Strell's head.

The foot came to rest just at the center of the rogue's chest. He raised his eyebrows at the troll.

"Might be ya wanna wear it up under ya clothes," Kinzal said with a sage nod.

"And the rest? Do we just strap them all over me? Because that does seem like it'd be an effective ward. _I_ wouldn't go near someone covered in licorice-scented chicken feet," he said as he tentatively sniffed a blackened foot.

"Nah, da rest go aroun' ya room. I might put some aroun' da house, too," the troll said thoughtfully. "But... I didn' mean ta boss ya inta wearin' it. 'S... silly," he said with a coloring of his cheeks. "We don' have ta do any of dis."

"No," Strell said quickly, his hand moving to Kinzal's arm of its own accord. "N-no, I mean, I like it. Thank you. I'm glad." He glanced down at the foot dangling from his neck, his free hand slowly spinning it by one of the curved, stubby claws. "And it's just my color!" he added with a quick grin, glancing up to find the troll watching him intently.

"Ya do look good wit' it," the warrior said after a moment, the tips of his long ears gently drooping. Large fingers turned the feathered claw until the three chicken toes faced out. "Dat's how ya wear it... should be extra strong. Doctah even wrote back offerin' ta work some voodoo for ya, but I tink we just gonna try dis for now. My sistahs always said dere's big power in amulets, an' I paid him extra for da good stuff for dis one, real rare ingredients. No powdered croc scales here, no, 's _real_ dragon. An' da feathers, dat's from da rarest purple macaws in Stranglethorn. Others jus' hawkstrider feathers, cause he gotta make do wit' what be on hand, but dat one's done right, like back home."

"Thank you, Kinzal," the elf replied softly. He realized he'd been rubbing his thumb in circles on the troll's forearm and immediately let go. "I'm sorry. But thank you for all the charms. Should we put them up on the walls, you think?" he asked as he stepped back and began searching for fitting places to put the voodoo amulets.

"Strell," the warrior said, his voice dryly grating.

"The servants will try to throw them away if they find them, actually," the rogue said as he wandered toward his dresser and checked one of the drawers. "Better somewhere hidden."

"Strell."

"What?" the elf asked as he turned and found the troll very close, his body drawn up straight and tall.

"I... Ya don' have ta run from me," Kinzal said tentatively, his lanky body swaying as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"I don't want to make things uncomfortable," the elf said quickly, his gaze sliding away. He realized he was bending the amulet in his hand and stopped, afraid he might snap it in half.

"Ya don' make me uncomfortable." His hand was on Strell's wrist, thumb smoothing circles over the tender skin just as the elf had done on his arm moments before.

"No," the brunet said gently, pulling out of the troll's grasp. "It's… you must know that I have these feelings for you," he argued, upset without being able to put a clear reason on it. His face and ears burned like the fire at work in the hearth. "You know that. And I know that you don't return them. And that's fine, it's all fine as long as you don't do… _this_," he said with a shake of his head, stepping back and trying to compose himself again.

Long ears swayed as Kinzal cocked his head, his own expression stunned and perplexed. "Don' return 'em? I have ta try hard jus' ta keep from kissin' ya," he said with a short bark of a laugh. His thick brow furrowed as he read the elf's face.

"Well, try harder than you did with Torril and you should be fine," Strell answered, knowing that the amused tone he'd intended had come out strained instead. He pressed his lips together and shrugged as he edged back another step.

The troll's face lost its surprise, settling into something more knowing and defensive, and not without guilt. "So ya _are_ mad abou' dat."

"Mad? I'm not mad," the rogue countered. "I'm _fine_ with you liking him, I accepted that, but _don't_ except me to roll over and let you vent your frustrations on me just because you know how I feel and the brother you prefer is off-limits," he said hotly. Suddenly the leather cord around his neck felt too tight, and he grabbed the voodoo talisman with the intent of pulling it off- but after a second he reconsidered, instead letting it fall back to his chest and throwing his arms out to the side in exasperation.

"Since when ya be knowin' who I prefer?" Kinzal asked, stooping and leaning in, his head cocked to the side. "Ya tink 'cuz he kissed me, I be crazy for him?"

"It's more based on the fact that you lost your job for his sake." Strell wanted to sneer, to shove the troll away for playing at this. "In front of everyone. You kissed him back in front of everyone, but you said no to me when we were _alone_," he added, almost surprised himself at how fiercely that stung.

"I didn' tink house servants was watchin' us-"

"I don't," the elf began, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, then his ears. "I don't need to hear, Kin. I don't-"

"Ya do," the troll nearly growled, wrapping his hands around the rogue's wrists, still dark from the lines of rope, and pulling his hands back down to his sides. "I didn' kiss Torril. He kissed me-"

"I hear you didn't exactly hurry to part lips with his, though."

"Is dat what ya wanted me ta do? Push him away? 'S hard enough ta have a one-sided love- I didn' wanna hurt him worse, or make him tink he was wrong ta do it. I jus'... didn' know how ta stop him gently," the warrior explained, voice soft despite the hard intent of the eyes on him. He was running the tip of his tongue along the inside of his tusk thoughtfully when he continued. "I don' want him dat way, an' I told him so after, an' da look on his face coulda made a golem cry. He's like my bruddah- I wanna protect him, not fuck him. But…"

"But?" Strell questioned aggressively.

"But wit my eyes closed, once it had already started… I could pretend it wasn' him," he admitted reluctantly, dark amber eyes flashing as he looked up from the floor. His expression was torn between a glare and something more pleading. "Ya had an inklin' how _I_ felt, too, Strell. One night ya interested in me an' da next ya gone, vanished, leavin' me behind witout a word. I wasn' sure how ta feel for a while dere. 'M sorry, though. I shouldn' have let dat happen wit him," he said heavily. "Would've avoided a lot of trouble."

"No," the elf muttered with a shake of his head. "How could you? Who could anticipate _Torril_, of all people, doing something like that? And I… didn't give you nearly as much consideration as I should have. You owed me no loyalty, were perfectly entitled to grant him your attentions instead," he said with a little shrug. "It wasn't your fault that I felt stung." There was a drawn moment of silence in which Strell bowed his head apologetically and Kinzal's upright, agitated stance deflated somewhat. "So… he reminds you of your brother? You told him that was why?"

Kinzal's smile was crooked, the guilt and hint of hurt gone from his eyes. "'S da truth. Half of it, anyway. An' I was tinkin' dat was da kinder of da two ta tell him."

Strell worked the hem of his shirt anxiously. His heart seemed to strike at his throat with every beat, rattling him inside. "The other half of it is... me?"

The troll sighed and pinched the bridge of his oversized nose with thick fingers. He nodded after a moment, as if pained that it had to be stated so plainly.

"You're serious?" the rogue asked, his expression lifting with rising joy. "Even since then?" he questioned, squinting slightly.

"At first I thought ya were a brat," Kinzal chuckled. "Actually, I still do. But ya do have a way of growin' on people," he sighed. "Among _other_ attractive qualities."

"I have… more than Torril?" Strell asked somewhat nervously, his fingers finding Kinzal's larger ones and slipping between them.

The troll groaned wearily. "Didn' realize dis was goin' on between ya," he said quietly. "Didn' tink ya were so torn up tinkin' I was after him."

"I love him. He is my brother, and I _love_ him, but how can I not envy him, too? I know firsthand how _good_ he is, how even with approval and adoration and privilege he feels… wanting. And it's hard to look at someone so deserving and hopeful and see them denied, but… I'm very glad- and still a little surprised- that you would rather have me. And I'm thankful that you tried not to break his heart."

"Even if I hurt yours?" the troll chuckled softly, dragging his hand and Strell's to the center of the elf's chest. "Ya both be differen'. Ya not _bad_, Strell," he ground out, sounding almost irritated. "Frustratin', yes. But good-humored, an' carin', courageous, acceptin'. An' dere's someone out dere for Torril, someone who'll see what a good heart he's got an' love him for it. Maybe dat elf girl he's marryin', even." At the elf's skeptical scoff, he added, "If all else fails, I got two bruddahs, one sistah, an' probably two dozen cousins all witout mates. Gotta be a match dere somewhere."

"Do Darkspear normally go for blood elves?" Strell asked with a growing smile. "Or is that a peculiarity specific to your closer relatives?"

"Had one cousin settle down wit a tauren, so anyting's possible," Kinzal said diplomatically, "but generally… nah. Most consider elves too picky, too uptight, too silly. An' too small. But Torril be pretty substantial for an elf. Trickier if he likes a woman, though- I wouldn' want him ta end up like dat poor, dumb whore my cousin's girl got. Not every man's built ta handle a troll woman. No shame in dat. Better ta own up ta it an' avoid a broke hip."

"Trollish wisdom at its finest," the rogue intoned. "But Torril… he's got no idea you reciprocate my feelings, then?" he asked, dark brows drawing together.

"I suppose not," the warrior said after a brief silence. "_You_ didn' even know, apparently," he added under his breath, on the verge of a scowl.

The elf's ears drooped and his eyebrows knitted together. "If… if he doesn't know… if he doesn't find out-"

"I barely even see him in passin' nowadays," Kinzal supplied, frowning. "An' dey keep him busy so he doesn' have free time for ya either."

"It's better, isn't it, to not tell him straight away?" Strell asked dubiously. "It's not so much lying as it is simply _not _rubbing it in his face," he reasoned. "I mean, what if it crushes him? What if it breaks him, like when you were fired? What if-"

"He doesn' need ta know anyting's changed," the troll interrupted, his hands cupping the brunet's face the same tender way he had days before. "We kin tell him when he be ready, when _we_ be ready."

The brunet mulled that over for a few long moments, eventually accepting it as the best course of action for all involved. "If we were characters in a dirty novel this situation would be so much easier to resolve," the elf said glumly. "But alas."

Kinzal hummed in reply, the sound reverberating in his throat.

Strell leaned in and pointed his toes, rising up a few inches; he frowned upon realizing that he still lacked the height to close the gap. "I'd like to kiss you now. _If_ you won't talk me out of it and then scurry off into the bathroom again, that is," he added with a wry smile.

Kinzal's kiss was eager but gentle, his lips warm and dry and rough with chapped skin, but only barely. He playfully stroked the tusks on either side of his jaw, grinned when the troll's much larger nose pressed forcefully against his own.

"Ya tink my nose be funny?" the warrior growled teasingly as they worked to find comfortable, fitting angles.

"Not as funny as your toes," Strell answered in between pressing loud kisses to the corners of Kinzal's mouth, marking where tusk met lip. He'd started smelling like vanilla in the days since moving to the elf's room and using his bath and soaps, but under it there was the familiar sea salt and metal scent to him, and he tasted of the same, aside from the faint, lingering bite of acid from the fruit he'd snacked on during their walk back. It was better than the smell of the hookah pipes, better than sweets baking or honeyblossoms in bloom or sex lingering on the sheets; of course, the smell wafting up from the chicken foot around his neck detracted from the moment a little, as did the press of the pointed claws into his chest.

"Well," Kinzal murmured as he pulled away just enough to part their lips, both of them panting softy, "me an' my funny toes'll be by ta bring ya back up here afta dinner wit ya faddah. Better get used ta 'em, elf," he winked.

* * *

"Ya _sure_ ya wanna do dis now?"

"For the hundredth time, _yes_," Strell said through gritted teeth. It was all he'd thought about through dinner, with his fork held so tightly in hand that his hand had blanched and his thighs pressed firmly together. Kissing Kinzal was entirely rewarding, but after weeks of being so close to him while stifling his feelings- and with no other companions to unwind with- he was eager to explore further. And with the troll lying here beside him, the both of them facing each other, so close their breaths mingled…

"'S just dat I know ya've had a rough time lately… an' I don' want dat ta be part of it, part of how we get our start togetha," the warrior said uncertainly. He trailed his scarred finger down the side of Strell's face, tracing the rise and fall of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. "I don' want ya ta rush inta dis as a… a distraction from dat."

"I'm not," the elf assured him. "With or without stalkers and elf-slayers milling about, I'd want you. And I'd want _this_. It's sort of in my nature," he explained with a sly grin.

Kinzal's hand traveled over the rogue's shoulder and down his waist, circling the slim rise of his hip absently; the corner of his mouth quirked up in a teasing manner. "Only if ya surely _sure_ ya wanna-"

"Infuriating troll," Strell hissed, leaning forward and covering the troll's lips with his own to make him silent.

It worked for a while, the only sounds within the room coming in the form of the warrior's muffled laughter, and then in muffled moans or heavy, hungry breaths. Strell was slightly uneasy with the troll's long tusks being so close in the beginning, the smooth, ivory-like bone pressing on each side of his face, running over his cheeks as Kinzal leaned over him and tilted his head to better slip his tongue into the elf's mouth. After a while their presence seemed almost natural, though, even as they pushed into the pillow behind Strell's head and pinned his hair against the silky pillowcase.

But the elf couldn't ignore the way Kinzal was rutting against his thigh, or the heat that seemed to stick to his skin wherever his large hands touched, the first beads of perspiration following soon after. Long, pale fingers slid between the two of them to trail just along the inside of the waistline of the troll's pants. At Kinzal's deep-throated growl and eager thrust against the elf's hip, Strell began to unbuckle the thick belt tied around the warrior's waist.

"Hasty, hasty," he chided as the troll nearly knocked aside his hands in his hurry to begin unlacing his trousers. "I hope you're not so quick later on," the elf teased.

"Trolls do it fast an' furious, didn' ya know?" Kinzal chuckled as he pushed the rough-spun cloth down his hips and freed his stiff erection.

It was long, as thick as the elf's wrist as it jutted out into the chilly night air, flushed a rich purple through the head and the bulging underside. The troll straddled his chest, leaving the drooping length of his weighty cock hanging just an inch above Strell's lips.

The rogue raised his chin and pressed a featherlight kiss to the underside of the head. It smelled of musk and salt- Kinzal's scent concentrated, made more potent. Strell toyed with the tip, lips and tongue quick and teasing as he watched Kinzal's face intently, hoping for a reaction.

The warrior was rocking back and forward, just _barely_, the whole of his upper body curling in over the elf until he blocked the ceiling entirely. He gripped onto the headboard like he was holding fast to a ship's railing for fear of being swept away. Orange-gold eyes were half-lidded with lust but undeniably focused upon Strell, waiting with fevered intensity for the elf to press on.

Slowly enough to make Kinzal's hips quiver and his jaw clench, the rogue lifted his head and eased the troll into his mouth. The fit was so full that he had to labor to keep his teeth from scraping against the searing, sensitive flesh as he bobbed his head, slowly keeping time with the rhythmic strokes he felt through his hair. Strell rubbed at the bulge of a vein on the underside of the troll's cock with his tongue, teasing and testing- he glanced up and again locked eyes with Kinzal, feeling triumphant as he made the warrior's toes curl into mattress.

The elf pulled back and let the length slip from his mouth. He wiped off his lips and worked his sore jaw as he tended to Kinzal with his hand instead, the pads of his lightly calloused fingers sliding slickly over the wet blue-purple skin.

"So..." he began as he slid his thumb back and forth across the rounded tip, "how does this work, reciprocation-wise? I mean, _can_ you do it? I don't want to be gored, but I also don't want to be the one getting shafted- pardon me- every time we do this."

Kinzal's eyes were slightly unfocused and his mind was clearly more concerned with matters at hand. "I... ah, I dunno. Gonna be trickier, but I kin get it done," he assured the elf.

"Your teeth are pointy, too," Strell noted as he ran his lips lightly over the swollen shaft, tongue just peeking out to draw circles round the head.

"Nervous?" the troll asked, baring sharp teeth and long, tapered tusks in a brazen grin.

Strell rolled his eyes as he drew Kinzal into his mouth again, taking dark glee in his ability to reduce the warrior to seven feet of groaning, muttering, shuddering troll.

"Do trolls not do that sort of thing?" he asked afterward as he wiped away the last traces of saliva and seed on the corner of his mouth with a handful of blanket. It was stronger that anything he'd ever tasted from an elf, salty and bitter and thick enough cling to his tongue even after he'd swallowed. Strell had managed to stomach the swill from Murder Row's less pristine taverns, though, as well as the homebrewed alcohol in country inns- by comparison, a mouthful of this was easily managed.

Kinzal shrugged and shook his head in response to the question. "Big tusks don' make for doin' it easy," he added with a little wave of his hand. "'S different wit da women, but if ya inta other fellas... well, 's pretty nice, not havin' ta worry about gettin' poked down dere," the troll admitted.

"Great," Strell said with a long-suffering sigh. "Because worrying about _that_ isn't an enormous turn off."

The warrior chuckled as he crawled backward, now straddling his middle as he leaned over to brush his tusks gently up the side of the elf's neck. "I kin keep ya happy," he purred, warm breath fanning over the elf's soft skin. "Promise."

"I'm inclined to believe you," the rogue drawled, an impish grin slowly spreading over his lips, "but I'd like some proof. One hears things about troll lovers..."

"Hears what tings?" Kinzal asked at once, his voice a low, suspicious growl.

Strell had to bite down on his lip to stifle a laugh. He noticed the warrior was still watching him intently, waiting for an answer, and he drew his tongue across his reddened lips mischievously. "Why, all talk and no cock, they say-"

He barely even felt his pants come off, so quickly were they tugged from his legs. His shirt must've gone off in pieces, because he found a button pressed into his back later. As the troll pushed him down into the mattress and began to trail tusk and tongue from his throat down to his navel, Strell decided that he had uttered the magic words for getting Kinzal into the mood to impress.

But the elf reconsidered his prodding when he felt the first mist of hot breath against his nethers, the brush of a gently curved tusk following shortly after. "W-we don't have to," he tried feebly, swallowing nervously as he suddenly imagined a dozen awkward sexual impalings that he'd rather not have his father stand witness to while a healer was summoned.

"'M not gonna hurt ya," the troll sighed against his skin. "Relax some."

"_Relax_," the elf scoffed, an anxious shudder wracking through him just before Kinzal took the whole of his length into his mouth.

When a minute had passed without any sign of a tusk boring into him, Strell _did_ allow himself to relax and enjoy the strange new sensation of Kinzal's ministrations- his tongue was slightly rougher in texture, his movements hasty but obviously eager to please. And the _temperature_. Did trolls just run hotter? Kinzal's mouth was an inferno, a smoldering, pleasing warmth that made the elf sigh and push his hips up until the warrior's nose was pressed into his belly. It wasn't the best the rogue had ever had (for now, that title still belonged to a night with one of Silvermoon's pricier whores) but it was _different_ in a very good way, one that left him as responsive to the sensation of worn, bony tusks scraping the insides of his thighs as he was to the feel of the long tongue wrapped around the tip of his prick.

"I could see myself getting used to that," he confided after, when Kinzal had finished licking his fingers clean and had settled in beside him to press his long nose against the elf's neck and hair.

"'All talk an' no cock'," the troll snorted. "Ya be gettin' da cock later tonigh', don' worry," he muttered against Strell's messy locks of hair as he began to drowse off. He sighed softly, sounding sated as he snuggled closer.

"Can I get a rough estimate of when you'll be waking up for that?" Strell whispered, earning only a drawn out 'shhhhh' in reply. He frowned, then wriggled and jostled to keep the warrior awake. "Like... eleven bells, twelve? I don't do early morning fucks. I just don't. Not for anyone."

"Ya too grumpy in da mornin'," Kinzal agreed sleepily. "An' it be more of an 'every hour on da hour' type ting, but if dat's too much ta start out wit-"

Strell rolled over to glare at the warrior, dumbfounded. "Every hour on the- Light, it's like cuckoo clock sex," he muttered as he swept his hair out of his face. He squirmed a little, feeling a mix of anticipation and doubt; he prided himself on his skills in the bedroom, but what Kinzal was asking would be taxing on all but the most vigorous of whores.

"Get some sleep while ya can," the troll advised, his golden eyes slipping shut and a lazy, contented smile crossing his lips. "Ya gonna need it."

* * *

He'd needed more. Dawn found Kinzal as spry as ever, and certainly more amorous, while Strell was conflicted.

"Quality _an'_ quantity," the troll said in his low rumble of a voice when they awoke together in a tangle, his grin plainly stating that he was ready for a seventh go.

Strell, on the other hand, was experiencing the typical pains of both an early morning and a sleepless night, though it was all confounded by a vague feeling of satisfaction. He quirked his lips from side to side as he tried to make up his mind. He _had_ said no morning sex- it had never proven enjoyable for him, always resulting in bad-breathed encounters that deprived him of his last precious hours of sleep- but now that the sun was rising and Kinzal loomed above him, smelling of musk and stale sweat, cock already stiffening against the elf's thigh...

"I need a full night's rest tomorrow," Strell warned while he laid back and wrapped his fingers around the troll's bicep, squeezing the thick muscle appreciatively as he beckoned the warrior toward him.

They'd stopped being slow and cautious and gentle the third time around. Kinzal had a particularly bad habit of wanting to go _fast_, which Strell had already vowed to break him of- there wasn't much chance of keeping their nights together quiet and discreet with him fucking at breakneck speeds.

As before, Kinzal wasted no time- he was already slick with oil from the bedside table as he leaned over the elf to rub the side of his face into mussed, tangled hair. He nibbled and sucked at long, pale ears and breathed deeply against the rogue's sweat-slicked skin, brushed his sizeable nose against the elf's, but he took care to never dip below the jaw- something Strell was immensely grateful for. While the elf appreciated the kisses and little love bites, tooth and tusk pressing against the soft flesh there recalled Mistren to mind too easily. He'd mentioned his worries to the warrior sometime in the night, after their third coupling, perhaps, and was pleased to find that Kinzal had listened attentively and carefully minded himself ever since.

They quickly worked up to the same rhythm as they'd had established through the night- _fast_, Strell thought with a weak, exasperated groan, letting his head fall back into the pillow as Kinzal doubled the speed and ferocity of his thrusts.

Much as he wanted to roll his eyes, or chide the troll for his unsophisticated approach to sex, Strell found it difficult to do anything but wrap himself around the warrior, open-mouthed but silent as Kinzal rolled his hips into him harder and faster. The pace made him feverish, lightheaded and skin ablaze as he was rocked against the bed. With his voice lost to him, the rogue instead dug his fingernails into the troll's shoulders until he slowed just shy of causing the headboard to thump noisily against the wall. It was still faster than Strell would consider ideal, but he couldn't deny the results.

The elf coiled his arms around the troll's neck and shoulders as the bucking of his hips grew more erratic, the breaths against his ear coming in labored bursts. His legs clenched around Kinzal's waist and drew him up closer, holding him fast against the quivering warrior as he was ground desperately into the mattress.

Kinzal came well before Strell did- the troll had stopped looking abashed about it a few rounds ago, at least- but soldiered on with a relentless dedication that made the elf grin. Thick fingers stroked and tugged him clumsily as the troll pressed into the panting rogue with slow, fluid strokes that stood in stark contrast to his earlier frenzy.

The elf arched up and pushed against him, savoring the way Kinzal slid comfortably within him now. All of the tight ache that had accompanied their first pairings was now gone. He'd been taken half a dozen times- claimed, in a way, or at least he liked to think so- and was left with a slick warmth inside him, his body comfortingly compliant. The rogue was no stranger to long nights spent abed, but never _this_ many times, and certainly not with just a single lover. And Strell wasn't certain why, but the thought of the troll's spent seed and lingering stiffness riled him more than any sweet nothings ever could...

It was over in three more measured thrusts, his own come dripping and pooling on his stomach as the warrior chuckled against his ear, the noise low and lusty and thick with accomplishment. The rogue groaned softly as he let his grip on Kinzal's shoulders loosen at last, feeling strangely satisfied as he saw the marks left on blue skin and the faint tint of red on the tips of his short nails. Though his thighs quivered and trembled, muscles aching from exertion, the elf kept his legs wrapped tight around the troll lying half atop him.

"Now go to sleep," Strell said with a long yawn, immediately feeling weariness seep into his limbs. He dragged the covers over them both as he settled in and shut his eyes, hoping for another hour or two of slumber before decency necessitated they both appear outside of the bedroom. The press of their bodies was comforting- wrapped around him like this, with Kinzal still buried within him, he could feel every movement the troll made- and the heat that still lingered on their skin made him drowsy with warmth.

"Ya want me in ya still," Kinzal murmured, his voice close to the elf's ear.

Strell could _hear_ the pride and lust in the troll's words, could practically feel his fierce grin. He could also feel the effect that this unintended compliment was having on the warrior. "Sweet Light, Kin, we _just_ finished... no, not again, not now. Get off of me and go to bed," he grumbled as he loosened his viselike grip around Kinzal's middle and wriggled away, letting the troll's hardening cock slide out of him.

The warrior let out a keening whine. "But I-"

"Have two perfectly good hands," the elf growled as he pulled the comforter up over his head.

* * *

Strell was surprised to see Kinzal had finally woken when he emerged from the steamy bathroom. He smiled as he adjusted the towel around his waist, wrapping it tighter and tucking the corner in so it held up on its own. "Overexert yourself?" he asked impishly.

The troll mumbled something and rolled off of the mattress, disappearing behind the bed.

"Do you need a snack? Some juice or something?" the rogue laughed as he peeked around the corner.

"Jus' been a while since I spent a night like dat," the warrior moaned from his place on the floor. "An' I ain' young as I used ta be."

"Did you throw out your back?" the elf questioned, half sincerely concerned, half struggling to stifle a laugh.

Kinzal swore under his breath as he sat up, groaned as he got to his feet and stretched. "I'mma throw _you_ out," he threatened half-heartedly. He flopped back down onto the bed, his weight making the mattress shake and the pillows bounce.

"If you're going to take a bath, do it now while there's still hot water," Strell advised as he plopped himself down beside the troll.

"'M gonna skip it for now." The warrior opted instead to run his hands over pale, bare skin, still damp and freshly scrubbed clean with vanilla soap. He smiled and gently toyed with the voodoo amulet that Strell had dutifully put back around his neck after bathing.

"It's almost noon," Strell sighed. He wanted nothing more than to lie here for the rest of the day, though; let the servants think they'd stayed in to read or pick locks, or he hadn't been feeling well enough to come down for breakfast and go on a jaunt in the woods.

"I need ta visit Lok'tak," the troll murmured, his lips pressing together slightly. "Kinda neglected him lately."

"Alright," the elf said with a little nod, withdrawing his fingers from Kinzal's hair, which he'd been stroking his fingers across. "I'm sure he's missed you."

"Ya not gonna walk wit me?" he asked, lines creasing his forehead slightly. "I promised not ta leave ya alone-"

"It's okay," the brunet reassured. "It's daylight outside and it's not far at all. I'll come out to you after- maybe with the stuff for a picnic. I'm sure Tarana'd like that," he suggested, already imagining the four of them- he, Kinzal, Tarana, and Lok'tak- sitting on a blanket under the winding branches of golden trees. "First I just want to take Torril his charm," he explained, craning his head to glance back at the voodoo foot sitting on his desk, the one that Kinzal had ordered with his brother in mind.

"Ah," the warrior murmured, understanding. He frowned a little. "Wish I could be dere ta see him get it."

"I know," Strell sighed. "Maybe once everything's sealed and done with his betrothed they'll loosen up with him," he pondered aloud. They both quietly considered this for a few moments, neither looking very optimistic. "Anyway, go take care of Lok'tak. Give him an extra piece of jerky for me. Let me go get dressed and see if I can catch Torril alone," he sighed.

Kinzal took far less time to get dressed than he elf did, simply finding a clean shirt and selecting his least-dirty pair of pants to wear under his armor. He threw mail on over it, and slid on his gloves and greaves, but was relatively lightly armored compared to his full-plate set. "Gonna walk him aroun' da east field, probably," he said as he buckled on his sheaths and carefully put on his swords. "Bring lots of cheese an' grapes if ya kin," he requested as he stooped a little and beckoned the elf closer.

Strell leaned forward slightly as he was given a brief good-bye kiss, tusks just glancing over his cheeks and ears. Kinzal's nose and forehead pressed against his own afterward, the fondness in the gesture somehow surpassing even the kiss. "Don't let him eat any hawkstriders," he warned as Kinzal eased back, undid the locks and slipped out into the hall.

"Good luck findin' Torril," the trollish warrior said in reply, his gaze sweeping up and down Strell once last time, looking as though he wanted to say something more even as he let the heavy oaken door shut between them.

* * *

He hadn't needed much luck to find his brother, in the end. It was a fortuitous day in terms of timing; or perhaps it had something to do with the amulet he had clutched in his hand, he thought with a small smile. Strell waited in a darkened portion of the hall on his floor, in between the times when the servants made rounds to stoke fires or deliver laundry, until he heard both of his parents downstairs as they prepared to take their monthly daytrip to visit Yvine's aunt, a courtesy he imagined neither of them was particularly happy about paying.

The great entrance doors had barely shut behind them before the rogue quietly slipped up the stairs to the next floor and checked each of his brother's rooms, though he had a feeling he knew where he would find him- the room at the end of the hallway, the one filled with relics of Light and the golden sun.

"Torril," he whispered as he slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

"Strell," the paladin murmured, golden brows arched in surprise. He quickly abandoned his contrite kneel for a cross-legged seat on the rug, gesturing for Strell to sit near him. "What are you doing up here? Oh, did Mother and Father leave already?"

"Just now," he said with a nod. "I come bearing a gift in the form of a withered foot," he announced as settled into a crouch. He pulled out the smelly charm and strung it on a thin strip of leather, as Kinzal had done for his, and then offered it to his brother. Torril had seemed skeptical until Strell explained its purpose and what good the troll hoped it would offer.

"That's very thoughtful of him," the blonde said as he slipped it on and studied the twisted claw. "Where is yours?" he asked after.

"Under my shirt," the rogue replied as he fished it out, holding it up for the other elf to see. "They're a little repulsive, but the thought is touching."

"They're beautiful," his brother said quietly, smiling as he examined both of them intently. "Especially yours. Those aren't strider feathers," he observed, green eyes squinting. "They're shaped like one of the species native to Stranglethorn-"

"Light, Torril, we need to get you back out of the library," Strell said with a pained sigh.

"They're from a very rare and valuable bird, Strell," the paladin-in-training murmured, locking eyes with the other elf. His eyebrows rose again, as if waiting for Strell to acknowledge what he'd said.

"Yes, he mentioned that," the rogue said, swallowing thickly as he tugged the feathered claw away from Torril and tucked it back under his clothing. He worried that he was beginning to perspire and glared at the oversized windows and their streaming light, blaming them for the heat of the room.

"You're… together now, aren't you?" Torril asked in a curious, cautious voice.

"What? No," Strell said reflexively, his eyebrows drawing together in surprise. "Yes," he admitted a heartbeat later, feeling both terrible and relieved to do so. "How did you... just from the feathers?" he asked incredulously.

The paladin sighed and tapped the side of his jaw, just where it met the lobe of his ear. "I've seen you with enough lovebites to recognize what they look like. And what they mean. I know you don't go out to brothels and taverns anymore, so I figured..." His brother let the sentence trail off, his cheeks tinged with the barest red.

The younger elf gaped for a few long moments, struggling for words. He felt his own face and ears go hot with embarrassment and feebly tried to tug his collar up higher. "I... I'm sorry, Torril-"

"You don't need to apologize," the blond said softly. "It's not..."

"I do, though. I-"

"No," Torril said forcefully, holding up a hand to silence the brunet. "You're my little brother," the paladin said, smiling when Strell rolled his eyes at the reminder of where they stood age-wise. "I have you here now, with me, and _happy_ about it," he murmured. "When for the longest time I feared that you could never be happy here. I have Kinzal's friendship... even if we don't see much of each other. And I have a fiancé I cannot be anything but pleased with."

"Torril," the brunet began, shaking his head. His brother's resigned tone bothered him most of all.

"No, Strell. This is the most I could have hoped for," the blond insisted. He took both of the rogue's hands in his own. "Once... once I'm lord here, I can do as I please. And that means you and Kinzal can stay, and you'll never feel like you don't belong or you need to run away, and he won't have to work for us. Everything will work out."

"You becoming lord of the house is a long way off," Strell reminded him, not even knowing where to begin for the rest of Torril's plans.

"Mother dares not send either of you away again, not after how I behaved before. The Windsongs nearly ended my engagement over rumors of my... deterioration," he told his brother. "She can't afford to risk that again." He shrugged.

"Light, Torril," the rogue groaned, rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger. "You know the saying about not counting your eggs til they've hatched, right?" he added. "Kinzal and I aren't... we're not _married_. It's just a thing. I wouldn't start envisioning a future where we're cohabitating couples just yet."

The paladin smiled, subdued contentment reading in his eyes. "It's not a fling to him, I'm sure. Is it to you?"

"No," Strell muttered, glancing away uncomfortably. "I... he's better than anyone I've ever been with."

"O-oh," the paladin said, now equally uncomfortable. He was dark with embarrassment and already distancing himself. "That's... good. I didn't mean to inquire after personal-"

"Light, Torril! Not like that," the rogue said with a shake of his head. "No, he's actually a little inexperienced in bed. Attentive, but not very patient. I meant that he's just... better. I feel safe with him, and confident," he added slowly. "I trust him. And I thought I'd trusted people before, but…"

Torril nodded, his thick golden eyebrows drawing together gently. "So long as mother doesn't interfere, I think you will be together longer than you seem to expect. You're persistent; he's dedicated."

"You're too generous," Strell replied flatly, glancing at his brother sidelong. "How _is_ everything with your betrothed?" he asked awkwardly, hoping to change the subject from anything regarding him and Kinzal. Torril's acceptance almost bothered him more than the hurt or jealousy he had anticipated.

The paladin shrugged. "She's perfectly amiable. She's always interested in what I have to say, always cordial, always agrees with me..."

"They turned her into a parrot, did they?" the rogue asked with a sympathetic sigh.

Torril pressed his lips together. "It's not her fault that her family is so... genial."

"There's a difference between being genial and being conditioned to never speak your mind," Strell said hotly. "No, to never have a contrary thought to _begin_ with," he groaned.

"She just needs a chance to act like herself," the blond said confidently. "I'm sure she'll open up once she's here with us. She won't really have a choice with you and Kinzal around," he chuckled.

"She'll be thoroughly scandalized by the pair of us tromping around her home and will probably leave you," the rogue said with with a faint,t easing smile. "Ah, well. It's not as though that will be happening for decades, Torril. I wouldn't get overly attached to any thoughts of... of us all being together. Trolls only live seventy, eighty years anyway, and I've probably knocked a good hundred off my lifespan," he added with a slight grimace. "Father'll probably outlive us all anyway. He's like a shining beacon of moderation."

Torril's expression was legitimately troubled. "I don't want to bury you," he said seriously. "Please stop blacking out from drink. And I've seen elderly bloodthistle addicts-"

"Oh, I've already pretty much quit that stuff," Strell sighed.

"But you've taken up whatever those leaves are that Kinzal smokes," the paladin continued, already slipping into the measured tones of a healer, the faintest lines of agitation appearing on his brow. "And I don't want to hear about the benefits of stress relief from him again- smoke in your lungs is _never_ good. Tell him I said that. And throw away that hookah, would you?"

"Torril, this is why you only get invited to parties by old people," the rogue said with a slump of his shoulders.

The paladin scowled and straightened up. "We sin'dorei are few. Forgive me for trying to prevent those of us left from wasting away in the pipe and the bottle," he said tightly.

Strell's brows furrowed at the intensity of his brother's tone. "You've taken a strong interest in this," he noted.

The tips of the blond's ears grew bright with a blush. "I talked about it with Kinzal before... and I've been thinking about it since then. I may not be able to travel somewhere like Northrend to heal, but there's plenty to do here. Perhaps more than ever."

"You do have a certain… forcefulness about you when it comes to healing and good health," Strell said with a good-natured grin. "I think you would be well served by taking on a more active role in healing here… I'll even throw out the hookah, as a show of support. And I won't keep smoking, if it makes you feel better. No promises about Kinzal, though. He gets stubborn."

"If you can't convince him, I'll help," Torril promised, a slight smile curving his lips. "And I appreciate you trying to listen to me. It _does_ make me feel better."

"Good. And I really am sorry, Torril. For a lot of things. For everything."

"Don't apologize," the blond said with a gentle frown. "Just… give my idea some thought?" he asked tentatively. "It might not be as far off as all that. I could move to the country house down south after I marry, and there's enough room there for all of us. You'd be far from Mother and we'd all be far from… whatever is happening."

"Perhaps," Strell said, edging around an explicit agreement. He wondered if such a change of location would distance them from the deaths and disappearances, or if the shadow of them would follow him even there. But he kept the thought to himself. "It sounds idyllic, Torril But you know I'm slightly less optimistic than you are by nature," he added wryly.

"I'm aware," the paladin sighed, his broad shoulders slumping. "If they're gone," he mused a moment later, an entirely un-Torril like mischief in his eyes, 'does that mean we could do down and have lunch together? I've noticed that the servants haven't been as open with Mother lately," he added with a tilt of his head, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"I think they hate me slightly less due to my association with Kinzal," the rogue explained as he stood, extending a hand to his brother. "And they hate _him_ slightly less because he seems like he's good and scary to ward off the elf-slayer. We were going to have a picnic with Tarana, the stable girl." He smiled broadly, suddenly realizing it was a good opportunity to really have them spend time together. "You're going to like her. And she definitely likes you- apparently you healed her foot once?"

"She remembers that?" Torril asked as he followed the other elf out down the flight of stairs, a pleased, slightly crooked grin in place.

The rogue nodded and laughed to himself as they ducked into the nearly empty kitchen and began to root around for suitable picnic foods. "Grab lots of cheese, would you? I'll get some wine."

"Not too much," the blond called after him as he descended into the cellar. "One bottle, Strell. _One_."

Strell snorted dismissively and perused the dusty bottles of wine with an appraising eye, ultimately selecting three of his favourite varieties. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with the three bottles in hand, staring at the labels until he sighed and placed two of the bottles on a nearby shelf.

"One," the brunet announced as he ascended the staircase, lone bottle in hand, pouting with all the force he could muster.

Torril beamed at him and opened the large picnic basket- already filled with carefully wrapped parcels of food arranged in orderly stacks- for him to carefully place the wine inside.

"Fruit," Strell said suddenly, his eyes opening wide. "Grapes! Need grapes-"

"There are grapes," Torril assured him, patting on the top of the basket and giving the other elf a bemused look.

"Oh, good. You always get it right," the rogue said with a quick smile. "Kinzal was wanting them," he explained, "and I think Lok'tak likes them too, act-"

He paused mid-word, ears cocked as he listened; Torril was doing the same, his brow furrowed with concern. Faint at first, but quickly growing louder, there was the sound of footsteps and slamming doors, shouting and screaming. _"Strell! Ser Torril! Strell! Strell! Strell-"_

By then the brothers had dashed out to the hall and were moving toward the source of the commotion; they turned a corner and there was Tarana storming through the house, a few straggling stablehands in tow, pushing aside the pair of house servants that were trying to slow her approach. Her skirts were half-pulled up in her frenzy, revealing the stained leather breeches underneath. "Ser Torril, Strell! Quickly, you must go quickly!" she said breathlessly, her voice shaking. "We were just taking Lok'tak for a walk and they came, guards on striders- they arrested him! He did _nothing_!"

"Arrested him?" Torril repeated in open disbelief.

Strell was voiceless. Something had leapt into his throat, making it hard to breathe and even harder to speak. He stammered, blinking away his shock and the fearful hurt that pricked him like needles. "Where? Why?"

"Up by the road, where the field runs close to it," Tarana managed to say, on the verge of tears now. "They put him in irons, sers! And they're taking him to Silvermoon like some criminal," she spat, her face red with anger and exertion, streaked now with tears. "They wouldn't even answer me when I asked why."

"Tyrus, get her some tea," Strell said as he pushed through the growing gaggle of servants, Torril in tow. He knew he must be blanched, as colorless as cream. But he forced a light smile to his lips as he helped the servant guide a shaking, cursing Tarana to the kitchen. "It's alright," he tried to soothe, "we've just got to go fetch him again. Nothing to worry about."

"He can never run from us for long," Torril supplied from behind him, a hint of playfulness- strained but well-intentioned- in his tone.

Their combined efforts seemed to set her right for the time being, and at last the stable hand allowed herself to be seated and tended to. Torril quietly and calmly gave instructions to the steward and servants, advising them to stay inside until things had settled. He signaled two of the stable hands and sent them out to ready their hawkstriders first.

"What could they possibly accuse him of?" the blond asked as they hurried outside and found Ody and Ajax waiting, saddled and impatient to leave. They mounted up without pause and set off down the path to the main road. "He has never done harm to any here. Surely... it is some mistake. A-a-a misunderstanding."

Strell's frown deepened as he loosened Ajax's reins, letting the bird set a brisk pace northeast. _A misunderstanding_. He might have favored that suggestion with a bit of consideration a week ago, two. Not now. There had been too many coincidences, too many visits in the night, too many friends taken from him by one circumstance or another...

"We don't have the good fortune to expect simple misunderstandings, Torril," he said as he turned his heels into Ajax's sides and spurred him on even faster. "And the guard captain has questions to answer."

* * *

**Also, I'm glad people have taken so well to characters like Torril! I like all the OCs I make (in one way or another) but he's a sweet babbu in a league of his own. And while I struggled to write **_**this**_** story out, I at least made substantial headway into planning/writing out the follow up, which is very Torril-centric. (Hey! There IS someone out there for him!)**

**I'm only anticipating needing another 2-3 chapters to get this wrapped up, and hopefully they won't take as long to churn out. -_-**


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